


Broken Roots, Twisted Branches

by LaernDeVir



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anti-Muggle Content, Bigotry & Prejudice, Cousins, Cruelty, Death Eaters, First War with Voldemort, Multi, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Torture, Villains, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 47,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24012187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaernDeVir/pseuds/LaernDeVir
Summary: Without consensus from different social strata, there are no powerful movements. Not all Death Eaters came from traditional, wealthy pureblood families. There were those of more dubious bloodlines and downtrodden origins who would use the opportunity to rise above their status, despite their structural and individual failings. A tale of cowardice and hypocrisy. First Wizarding War.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Unlikely Predators

# Broken Roots, Twisted Branches

### Unlikely Predators

January 1979, United Kingdom

The streets of West Rhyl were deserted this night. Only the occasional cold wind could provoke a sound in such a nocturnal void. Lights were few by midnight, as if often was. The neighbourhood’s only apparent nightlife these days were the occasional mugger looking for the odd victim who chose to take a walk in the wrong quarter.

Soon, one of such poor souls made themselves present. A thin man in his thirties named Darren Hughes appeared in one of the corners. He sported disheveled black hair with quite a bit of early gray in it. He walked down the lightless street, his icy blue eyes were predatory and red, and his mouth offered an inelegant grin with missing front teeth. He fondled his side nervously, apparently caressing an object he had hidden within his dark clothes.

The man’s grin slightly faded after a few minutes. Apparently, he was waiting for someone who was not showing himself. His predatory gaze became slightly less intense, though he still looked for any sign of movement. Then, as if God himself had granted his wish, the silhouette of a person appeared in the street’s corner, the single lamppost projecting a shadow upon the floor.

Another man, this one was apparently quite younger and a bit more attractive, if a bit too gaunt of for his apparent age. His tawny blond hair was kept short, and his hazel eyes would have been attractive for women were there not heavy bags beneath them, as if he had not slept for days. He wore a dirty brown suit with a white shirt that had some stains of some sort. He was tall, and though he seemed to be in his twenties his grim expression and gaunt appearance made him look slightly older.

He came walking to Darren, who noticed a slight limping as he came. Probably a rough night for his backside, thought the older man sardonically. The younger man certainly had the look of someone of finer tastes raised in the less appealing parts of Rhyl.

The man in his thirties grinned once again, this time at the blond young man. He approached to him as if he was an old acquaintance, though probably both knew such a thing was untrue. He patted the young man on the shoulder, a gesture that the blond did not seem to wholly appreciate nor return. The man in his thirties was not bothered.

“I knew you would eventually come, matey,” spoke Darren, with a slight hint in his voice that he had been drinking beforehand.

The blond merely nodded.

“Oh, no need to be so shy! You’d not be the first bloke to buy some of my stuff in the neighbourhood! As a matter of fact, I’m surprised that, having seen you at these odd times awake, you never came, if only for curiosity!”

The blond merely raised an eyebrow at first. Afterwards, he spoke: “I’m sorry if I offended you by not coming. I’m sure you offer the… best goods here,” he stammered as he apologized with a subdued tenor tone. Something seemed off about him, the older man thought. Either he was expecting this transaction to involve a sort of physical extenuation to which Darren would not comply unless drunk enough, or he did not quite know what he was coming for. All the better for him, he thought wickedly.

“It’s just that only recently have I begun… consuming these,” completed the blond.

“Oh, a newbie then, are you? It’ll be a pleasure to give you the best of the stuff,” answered the older man, his unflattering grin still intact in his face.

Darren produced a small bag from one of his pockets. A white powder-like substance could be seen. The blond man nodded and made a move as if to give him the money in exchange for the substance, though the other man had apparently changed his mind.

The crooked man took out a knife from his side, the tool he had been fondling nervously for half an hour, and put at a breath’s distance from the younger man’s neck.

“You know, you seem to be quite wealthier than the average neighbour here, sirrey. I don’t think I will miss this opportunity”, he hissed, licking his lips anxiously. Curiously enough, the blond man was not apparently fazed by the turn of events.

“I see the transaction terms have changed. Good, I was also about to propose a new arrangement as well”, answered the blond gaunt man with an unimpressed tone of voice. This appeared to have angered the dealer.

“What are you talking about, cocksucker? You’re in no condition of changing anything. Give me the money or I’ll draw you a new pair of smiles out of your battered arsehole!” growled the dealer-turned-mugger. To this, the blond gave the briefest smile, almost in a sardonic reference to the older man’s curses and threats.

“I am afraid I am, though I thank you for paying such a dear attention to my buttocks,” answered the blond drily. He then produced a slightly long wooden object with a few twists and decorations in what would be the handle. The older man was confused, though he laughed at the blond man.

“That’s what you pleasure yourself with, don’t you, nancy boy?”

“You could say that, I guess,” replied the tawny blond man.

Confirmed, he was a pillow-biter.

“Then I’m going to make both Britain and I favours. First, I’m going to rid the nation of one weird sea queen, and then I’m going to make myself a bit o’money without actually selling my better stuff,” growled the older man.

The blond shrugged, though something was in his hazel eyes that indicated a degree of malice. “I’m most sorry, but you won’t be doing any of that. As I said, there are new arrangements to our deal regarding one-sided needs.”

“I care not for you or that wooden dildo you carve yourself with, nancy boy! I’ll cut that hand that you shove so much up your-“but the man couldn’t finish his sentence, as the younger man pointed at the hand holding the knife and spoke a queer, Latin-sounding word.

“ _Diffindo_.”

And the hand holding the knife fell off along with the knife. The older man screamed in agony, as he bled profusely. There was soon a pool of crimson liquid on the floor. The cocaine also fell to the floor, creating a grotesquely attractive view of white specs mixed within the scarlet puddle. The gaunt young man approached and pointed the wooden object and spoke again, this time in a short chanting voice.

“ _Vulnera sanentur. Vulnera sanentur_ , _vulnera sanentur_ ” he softly recited.

The wound stopped bleeding, as if cauterized by a mysterious force. The petty criminal stared dumbfounded, still understandably terrified from what had just transpired. The blond man’s face, however, was as lacking in emotion as it was when their meeting began. After finishing with the strange recitation, he pointed the ornate wooden stick at the pool of blood and cocaine, did another recitation and the floor was suddenly clean, barring the clean-cut hand.

“That, I’m afraid; we’ll have to leave it somewhere. Perhaps one of my friends can make some use of it,” murmured the strange blond man nonchalantly. The criminal was shocked from terror. He spoke of his missing hand as if it was some sort ofcomponent or offering for a satanic rite. What was worse, perhaps he was not in the wrong.

The gaunt young man approached to the hand. He took out a small wallet to which he pointed the wooden stick and murmured another set of incoherent words. Then, he started putting the hand slowly inside the small wallet, despite its size not even matching that of the hand. However, after what were only ten seconds, the hand entered into the recipient. The older man was even more terrified.

“What kind of creature are you, boy?! You’re the Devil himself!” the older man cried in abject fear. The gaunt young man’s reaction was even more unsettling than the apathy he expressed or the small smirk he allowed himself when he had caught his prey unprepared for the display of unnatural powers: he nodded respectfully at the older man and spoke in a tone that showed a degree of regret.

“First of all, I’m sorry for what’s come to this situation. While certainly you were not giving me any margin to do anything else, such an injury was undeserved and an unfortunate event.”

“Unfortunate event?! You sliced my hand with the help of Satan himself!” Darren answered with a mix of anguish and sheer terror.

“As I said, I am sorry. Even though you probably had similar intentions for my throat”, replied the young man with a raised eyebrow, apparently amused at the hypocrisy of his excuse of an assailant. The petty criminal’s eyes were as dishes.

“Oh, please, don’t do anything to me. Please, I beg you!”

The younger man stared without any apparent emotion at the dealer and sighed.

“I won’t do anything further to you if you comply, good man. You’ll soon stop being my responsibility, however. Or, at least, I hope so.”

He paused, his expression pensive.

“Then, I can only hope that whoever is responsible of you has your best interests at hand.”

The petty criminal was even more confused by what his prey-turned-hunter said. Who were going to be responsible of him? What was that supposed to mean? The younger man apparently perceived the confusion and fear in the older man’s face, and sighed once again.

“I’m sorry. I hope everything makes sense later on or, at the very least, it turns out to be a brief uncomfortable moment.”

If that was supposed to be reassuring, it failed miserably, thought the criminal.

“May I know your name?” the younger man suddenly asked. This question shocked the greying criminal. Did this Apocalypse Horseman just ask his name out of the blue? What was his game?

“Eh, excuse me, sir?” the criminal managed to babble.

“Your name, good man. I only got your cover name, and truth be told, calling someone Mr. White is a pun both evident and rather awkward, wouldn’t you agree?”

The older man was increasingly flabbergasted by the statements and questions of this demon. He had just cut his hand with dark magic of some sort? How can he nonchalantly ask him his name? Though, the older man considered that perhaps making him more angry (was he even angry in the first place?) would be counter-productive.

“Hughes, sir... Darren Hughes.”

The blond man offered an apparently sincere smile, if a tad too cordial for Darren’s taste.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hughes. My name’s IorathKneath.”

“I...thanks for the courtesy, sir, but...”

The smile’s cordiality seemed to mutate into condescendence. Iorath’s eyes matched said tone with a degree of pity.

“I know, ‘twas most unfortunate. I’m afraid I’ll probably won’t make up to it,” Iorath’s voice tried to remain neutral, though the condescending mercy was apparent. Darren would be infuriated with someone who put on airs in other circumstances, but with this emissary of Hell having just sliced his hand he preferred to keep his thoughts and choice of words to himself. For once.

“Thanks for your kind thoughts, young man. Then may I go? I’m sorry for trying to steal from you, sir. I really am! Please, don’t hurt me any further, I beg you!”

Iorath looked at him for a while, his expression unreadable. Then, he gave another sigh. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me. That’s part of the change of arrangements regarding our mutual business.”

“What mutual business are you talking about? I was to fool you by lying to you and trying to rob you! And you proved yourself quite a bigger challenge than I expected. There’s nothing I can give you!” he nearly wept.

Iorath gave him another long look, but this time, he did not speak; he took out the wooden ornate stick once again and pointed at him. His face remained emotionless.

By contrast, Darren was already going backwards, terror visible in his face. He extended his remaining hand in a pleading signal.

“No! No, no, no, no. Don’t do it, please. Oh, in the name of all that is holy, please don’t kill me!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you here,” answered Iorath without lowering the wooden stick, his expression frozen in the emotionless mask he managed to wear most of the time. “’It would be a violation of the agreement between parts.”

“Please, I haven’t agreed to anything. If it is coke you want, I can arrange it to you!”

“Oh, no, but thanks all the same. ‘It’s not with you with whom the agreement was made. It is something that was arranged between me and my superiors.”

Then he narrowed his eyes.

“You’re the bargaining chip,” he said, and then he whipped the wooden stick and pointed it once again at him.

“ _Stupefy_!”

After the stick released some sort of lightning bolt, Darren dropped against the wall with a thud, his head suffering a small hit. However, despite the small injury, he found his body in pain and his consciousness slipping.

The last thing he would remember of that night was Iorath’s pitying gaze as he fell into the void of the unconscious.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What could have been three of four hours after the failed attempt at mugging was spent by an unconscious yet pained Darren. The greying criminal woke up on a dusty bed in what could be described as an abandoned warehouse or, far too familiar to him, a morally questionable person’s hideout.

Of course he was right about the last thought, as he soon discovered by listening to the voices coming from a nearby corridor. Iorath’s subdued tenor was discussing with an elderly female’s contralto. The petty criminal decided to approach the door as quiet as he could. Any insight on his situation was welcome, as long as it did not result in losing another limb or worse.

“-Can’t just do as you want with muggles. You’ll draw suspicion,” said Iorath.

What could “muggles” possibly mean, Darren would not know. Certainly not a word very well known in this part of Wales. Or in any part of Britain, as far as he could imagine.

“It is the will of our honoured guest and of the Dark Lord. You would do well to remember our place, my son,” answered the elderly voice with a hint of derision.

Dark Lord... by now, Darren had enough evidence to assume that this Iorath man was part of an insane satanic cult. A satanic cult involving professional kidnappers that are one big happy family.

So this is some sort of family satanic mafia, thought Darren with almost a laugh at the absurd situation he found himself in. He decided to look a bit more at the room where he was; the pale green walls were run down, humidity having ruined much of it and even fungi could be spotted in certain areas. Wherever he was, it certainly didn’t look much different from his own small and ruined flat. If anything, it managed to look as a home for the downtrodden and demented. Darren was already sure that second part was very much on spot.

However, Iorath and his supposed mother’s pseudo-aristocratic voices did not match very well with the humble environment. The discussion appeared to be quite heated, even if Iorath’s voice attempted to calm down his mother.

“Our... guests must understand that any further rousing of the local population will result in Aurors visiting us, mother,” spoke the young man from the other side of the wall. Darren could only begin to imagine what he meant by “Aurors”. He seemed to be afraid of whatever they were. His mother, however, answered the concerns with a scoff.

“The idea _is_ luring those dogs here, idiot boy. Do try to gain a backbone, brat. You’re supposed to excel in your new duties if you are to be accepted among the Dark Lord’s most faithful. Only that way you’ll stop being the failure you’ve been so far” she growled with her harsh contralto.

That does not sound like a kindly, caring mother, thought Darren. While his mother was not by any means the image of a Catholic saint, she certainly would not speak with the contempt that this woman had for her supposed son.

The old woman continued her belittling remarks for quite a while.Iorath stoically endured each and every insult. Calling him a failure was one of the least offensive things she told him. Reminding him he was the scum of society was a regular occurrence for the following ten minutes.

What bothered the criminal the most was not just her cruel demeanour. Not that it was particularly endearing to the woman, but her supposedly aristocratic inflections. Her manner of speaking showed that she was a woman who wanted to appear something she was not. On occasion, while belittling her son and letting the anger dominate her, the cruder aspects of the English and Welsh languages could be heard from her mouth.

A pathetic pretender who wants to shit higher than what her wrinkled arse would let her, concluded Darren with a half smile. He would almost feel sorry for the blonde sea queen who cut his hand off. Enduring that crone for a long time was most certainly a horrible trial. Picturing her raising anything else than the cat she would eat the next morning was nearly impossible.

“You’re an imbecile, boy. Always were a nancy who brought disgrace to this family. Now is your chance to redeem yourself in face of the Pureblood families and you soil your trousers!”

That being said, she certainly shared Darren’s thoughts regarding the Iorath man’s masculinity. The blond moffie had far too many manners that contrasted with the neighbourhood and a care for his personal appearance that showed a little too much of vanity. Even more so when he was also covered in filth, but pretended to look posh.

“I will not abandon my mission, mother,” Iorath answered calmly, as if used to the verbal abuse of the old woman for a very long time. “But even you must understand that our family and our... protector cannot defend us from an Auror raid.”

The old witch laughed. “You think the Death Eaters haven’t got something prepared, you bleeding flit? So many missions you’ve done for them and you still haven’t learnt anything!

“The muggle scum is to bait some Aurors here. The two rats we have here aren’t too many or too important to the rest of that filthy society!”

To this, Iorath merely narrowed his eyes and sighed.

“You have been middling so far, boy. Better keep that up or else we’ll accompany you in your failure deep into the grave,” growled the old woman.

Then, Darren heard something, a strange sound that was followed by steps. Possibly two people made themselves present. The old woman confirmed his suspicions as she suddenly shrieked with some mix of excitement and admiration.

“I’m most humbled by your presence, good sirs. Welcome to the Kneath household!”

There was a silence. If the other two men were any appreciative of her welcome, they were not being too evident about it. Iorath’s tenor voice broke the pause.

“We’ve got the bait you suggested, Nott.”

Bait?

That did not sound any better than potential sacrifice to the Dark Lord these freaks seemed to worship. The consequence was most certainly the same. Darren started trembling.

“As was expected, Kneath. Failure is never an option for us” drawled one of the men, his voice giving away his age. He was an older man, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties. Or perhaps younger, but his voice gave away the impression of being an aging man. His tone was unlike Iorath’s mother, who tried to express herself in a posh way but her language and inflections showed how much of a chav she really was. This man actually acted the part of some high class lout. Perhaps he even was one.

“That much is clear. For that very reason, I must discourage taking action today. The locals have been provoked far too often, and the Ministry’s response might be harsher than what is expected,” said Iorath. Darren could hear the boy was trying to sound calm, but trembling in his voice betrayed him. Whoever were the visitors, they were feared by Iorath and praised by his lunatic mother.

“How droll. Getting cold feet already, Kneath? I still wonder how you and your pathetic family got all sorted into Slytherin. That lack of spine never fails to amuse me,” mocked another male voice, harsher and less concerned with keeping appearences. Darren wondered what the man could mean by “being sorted into Slytherin”. It sounded like some sort of liquor. Or perhaps he was just missing his own liquor. It would certainly help in this situation.

“Of course not, Selwyn. My gormless son simply chose his words poorly. He’s merely concerned with the Auror that’s coming,” cooed the old woman’s contralto. The Selwyn individual barely lowered his aggressive tone towards Mrs. Kneath.

“That better be the case, Ysbail. Your niece and daughter already shows little promise for us, other than breeding. Your son better not be the case.”

“Oh, he will do just as you ask. You won’t be disappointed, Selwyn! Iorath is committed to the Dark Lord already!”

Selwyn decided not to reply. Most probably, the old woman’s exaggerated flattery was beginning to tire him. Her shameless arse-licking seemed hypocritical after the verbal beating she gave her murderous son. Darren could only imagine what kind of people could these Nott and Selwyn be if they intimidated a man capable of slicing a hand off a person.

He had to leave this place immediately.

He tried to look at the room better. It was some sort of cleaning storage, but dirty and ruined by humidity. He could not see another door or a window of some sort. There was no apparent exit.

The verbal exchange continued. This time, the aristocratic old man spoke.

“The time draws near. We must begin with the plans shortly. I trust you have the piece of filthy meat you promised?”

Darren’s breath caught a faster rhythm. His time was running out. He had to get out. It did not matter how, if he had to tear the door apart. He would do just that.

Darren threw all his weight against the door, hoping to break it down. He did at the first attempt. The door fell down to the floor, the petty criminal following shortly after. He did not expect the

“Bah! It’s always the same with this inbred cattle’s house! Everything falling apart. You disgusting rabble can’t even hold the filthy basement where you procreate together!” grunted the Selwyn man. As Darren was trying to get up, he lifted his head and saw the men behind the voices. Or better said, he saw their black-cloaked, silvery-masked forms.

Darren was definitely kidnapped by some horrid cult.

One of the cloaked figures, whose voice Darren identified as the Nott man, addressed him. “Well, we were about to escort you, anyway. Good to see that your... kind is ever so eager to fulfil their purpose.”

Desperation overtook the petty criminal’s mind and body. He needed to appeal to some sort of mercy of these madmen. With his eyes filled with tears, he spoke to the Nott man.

“Please, sirrey. I’m no one. I’m really just thrash. There’s nothing I can give you other than some cheap coke. I beg you, let me go,” he wailed.

There was no way to know their expressions, but the Selwyn bloke snorted in disgust. Nott’s tone, on the other hand, was silky and mocking.

“Your self-awareness does you credit,” he purred, the hint of laughter perceptible behind the words.

“For how long will we tolerate this creature of filth?” demanded the Selwyn man. His right hand went for something within his robes. He produced one of those wooden sticks. It was an extremely dark brown, almost black. Darren, still dropped in the floor, gulped.

This seemed to entertain Selwyn a bit. “You’re right, Nott. This thrash sure knows his place,” he guffawed.

Nott said nothing, while Selwyn kept chortling with malicious amusement. If Darren was to guess, the Selwyn bastard was more of a sadist within the cult, as well as the more unhinged one. He relished in Darren’s humiliation. Nott was, for the time being, much more composed.

Selwyn stopped his malicious chuckle to glare at Iorath. “Now’s your opportunity. Show us if you’re above the thrash you were raised amongst, Kneath.”

Iorath’s face went even paler than it already was. His sharp features somehow seemed older, and there was a slight tremble in his hands.

“Mr. Selwyn. Surely... surely you do not think now’s the moment! We’re barely prepared for any retaliation!”

Selwyn made a gurgling sound in disgust, as if about to spit. Darren thanked those masks and hoods for the first time in the night.

“You’re absolutely pathetic! A snivelling coward! The rumours regarding you must be true, pillow-biter!”

Now it was Nott’s time to give a short chuckle.

Mrs Kneath, who was silent until the moment, interjected. “Those are filthy rumours spread by mudbloods and blood traitors, Master Selwyn! Please, do not believe them! Our family respects Pureblood tradition in every shape!” Her voice sounded desperate.

Selwyn’s masked head suddenly directed at Mrs Kneath’s direction. “If you follow Pureblood traditions, woman, then you’ll speak when you’re asked to. Not once before,” he spat.

Nott chortled again, but his tone was condescending when he spoke.

“At ease, Selwyn. Now’s not the time to mock our apprentice and his... preferences. Or Mrs Kneath, who merely wants the best for her family. We have pressing matters at hand, after all,” then he directed his cloaked and masked head to Iorath “You’ll do as you have to, child.”

Iorath closed his eyes for a few seconds, andthen he slowly opened them again nodding, his expression unreadable.

“Of course, Master Nott,” he whispered simply.

Selwyn made another noise of disgust and decided to leave the corridor, muttering something about pretentious thrash trying to buy their way into the Sacred Twenty Three. That meant absolutely nothing to Darren, who was still lying on the floor, awaiting whatever horrid fate they had in store for him. Or, should opportunity rise, leave this madhouse.

Nott nodded at Iorath, and soundlessly directed his black-gloved hands at Darren.Iorath closed his once again, this time for a longer time. He took a deep breath, then without opening, he drew that wooden stick. Darren’s eyes began to fill with tears.

“Please, sirrey! I’m no one; I’m nothing as you have said. You don’t have to waste your powers on me!” he wept miserably. Iorath looked upon him. There was no emotion in his face.

“You’re right, good man. You’re indeed nothing” he whispered, pointing his wand at him.

“ _Crucio_ ”

And Darren’s body was invaded by a pain impossible to even imagine. White-hot knives seemed to be pealing his skin. His bones and organs burned from inside. He wanted to tear his eyes out of his face so that they would stop aching. His body contorted in agony as he screamed until his voice cracked. As he wailed and writhed on the floor, he could see Mrs Kneath consciously staring at other direction, as if terrified by the display.

What seemed as an eternity came to an end, and Darren was shaking, his whole body twitching as he wept with his voice coarse from screaming.

Nott’s masked and hooded head nodded. “Not bad, but I’ve seen better Cruciatus Curses. You doubt.”

Iorath tried his best to remain expressionless, but sweat betrayed his mask of security. Nott seemed to remain thoughtful for a time, and then his elderly voice spoke once again.

“You know what remains. I’m aware of your talent with the Imperius Curse, so I won’t ask that. It’s time to see if you deserve to be among our ranks, Kneath.”

Iorath’s face was suddenly covered in sweat. He was trembling, not as much as Darren, but whatever was being asked of him was terrible for him to even consider.

All the same, he once again pointed his wand at Darren. The petty criminal could not even beg for mercy. His throat was sore from screaming, and his whole body was apparently broken by whatever power invaded him.

The blond young man then muttered two words.

“ _Avada Kedavra_.”

And a small blast of green directed at Darren. He felt a sharp pain in his head, and his nose suddenly started bleeding, but it was nothing compared to the seething pain that took over his body a few minutes ago.

“ _That_ is the best you can do? Perhaps Selwyn had the right idea about you, boy,” drawled Nott.

Darren was still in pain, but his sore throat gave him a bit of relief. He tried to conjure the words he needed with great effort.

“I beg you, please stop... Please end this... I’ll be good... I’ll behave,” he whispered weakly. His throat and lungs burned as he tried to speak.

If Nott had noticed him speak, he surely did not show it, for he was still directed to Iorath. The masked and hooded man gestured him to continue.

“Should you fail, Kneath, we’ll have at least one corpse more than what was expected,” the presumed old man said silkily, “I suggest you put more effort.”

Iorath’s trembling worsened, and Darren noticed that Mrs Kneath’s eyes started to go bright, forming tears. Desperation was not only present in the tortured criminal, but also the mother and son responsible for his torment. Darren started to realise that his situation was well beyond his control. Whatever the result, he would not live beyond the following minutes.

Whether this Nott man or the satanic sea-queen was the one to execute him, his life was forfeit. Any other fate depended on a miracle.

“Please, son. You can do it, I’m sure,” Mrs Kneath’s contralto voice uttered softly. She was no longer trying to sound imperious, scathing or sycophantic. Fear possessed her as well. Iorath gave no reply, his wooden stick still pointing at Darren and his hand trying its best not to waver. But no queer incantation or energy came from it. Nott started to crack his gloved fingers in exasperation; the only noise heard so far apart from Darren’s whimpering and pained moaning.

Nott was growing impatient. He reached for something within his robes. Another damned wooden stick. For the time being, he was not pointing it at anyone. If this hesitance on Iorath’s part was to continue, it would do more than pointing.

Iorath took notice of Nott’s unspoken threat. Once again, he closed his eyes. Sweaty beads dropped from his face to the floor as he breathed heavily. Mrs Kneath was biting her fingers in anxiety.

Darren, still in pain from the harmful witchcraft the blond man put on him, started to look for any opportunity, any escape route. But it was a one-way corridor, with its walls ruined by humidity as well. Still, if all options led to his death, he did not know why he should make it easy for them. Drawing a long breath, he suddenly stood up and started to stride. He tried to run, but the pain he felt in all his body would only allow him to limp.

Fast enough to surprise Mrs Kneath and Iorath, who had just opened his eyes, but not Nott.

“ _Crucio_ ,” he whispered, pointing his wooden artefact at him.

Once again, Darren’s body was subjected to the invisible torment. This time was even worse. He could not even scream despite feeling how every bone inside him cracked open, how his skin burned from inside, how his veins seemed to carry lava.

“Last chance, Kneath,” Nott said simply.

Iorath drew one last, long breath, his eyes closed. The writhing Darren looked behind him, only a few inches from where he once lay. When the blond man opened his eyes, he saw what could only be described as resignation. The hazel eyes seemed dead as they bore unto Darren.

“You wish it to stop?” the blond man asked suddenly.

Darren was shaking uncontrollably from the pain. It was beyond unbearable. He felt as if his brain was throbbing from the amount of pain he was receiving. Flashes of slightly better times, when he was still carrying out his craft on the streets of Rhyl, the time he obtained a Speake-Marin watch from a successful mugging, the few times he got along with his broken family. All those small moments of happiness floated in his pain-addled mind.

“Do you wish it to stop, Darren?” asked Iorath once again. There it was that hint of pity in his tenor tones. This time, however, it did not bother the petty criminal that much. Whatever dignity remained in him had fled with the last act of magical torture he was submitted to.

Darren’s blue eyes slowly rose to meet Iorath’s hazel gaze. Iorath’s eyes were dead, as if all this was happening to someone else. His vacant expression was somehow soothing for Darren, in the midst of the torture.

Darren could see the meaning behind Iorath’s words.

“Yes... yes I want all this to end,” he spoke, his voice broken with tears.

Iorath nodded silently. Then he pointed the wooden stick at him.

“ _Avada Kedavra.”_

The green flash flew once again at Darren, this time larger and faster. Unlike before, when he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, a freezing sensation overtook Darren’s brain. It was followed by the most absolute of reliefs: he no longer felt the pain of the previous torment.

He did not feel anything at all.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The petty muggle’s body stopped shaking in the floor. It was unmoving, as it should be after the spell cast upon it. Iorath looked at it, his gaze still vacant. He could not take his eyes out of the muggle’s body.

Ysbail Kneath’s eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of her face at any minute. The old woman was trembling. Her expression was a mix of disbelief and sheer horror. She could not remove her terrified gaze from the muggle’s unmoving body.

Nott approached and touched the creature’s dirty wrist, looking for the artery. The hooded man nodded at Iorath. “Well done, child.”

Iorath humbly nodded back at him, but his mind could not see what he had done well.

“Let us go tell Selwyn. Leave the talking to me, for the time being. We need to continue with the second part of the procedure.”

Nott moved down the corridor and stopped only to direct his masked face to Iorath when the young man failed to follow him. Iorath could not move from the corridor.

“He won’t be the first one, boy. Move. You too,Ysbail,” Nott spat.

Iorath and his mother obeyed. Their movements were fast and badly coordinated, unlike Nott, whose cloaked figure moved with certainty.

The living room was very much like the rest of the house: the walls had long been ruined by humidity, with the better parts filled with fungi and dark spots. There was one large wooden table in the centre, slightly unbalanced and inclined, along with a handful of chairs. The only things to bring some grace to the dark-green, damp walls were a large bookcase, portraits with moving photographs, the dirtied depiction of a genealogic tree and some ornaments with the shape of serpents.

Selwyn was sitting in one of the chairs, his mask on the table and his hood down, revealing pale blond hair, grey eyes and a handsome face in his late thirties marred by a few scars in his cheeks. He was drinking a ruby-coloured liquid. Firewhisky, by the looks of it. When he saw Iorath, Nott and Ysbail enter, he snarled.

“Finally you appear. I trust you haven’t failed, Kneath,” he grunted.

Iorath did not reply. He preferred not to exchange words with Selwyn. He had long been the “benefactor” of the Kneath family, or rather the representant of the Selwyn household interests. He was the one that suggested that Iorath could bolster the ranks of the Death Eaters due to his “slightly above average” talent at duelling and the knowledge the Kneath family had of the less savoury parts of Wales.

That, however, did not mean that Selwyn was fond of Iorath or his family; to him, they were a shameful thorn impaled in his left foot most of the time. To be the patron of a lowly family of pureblood pretenders, as the Kneath family was viewed, was something to do only because of the benefits of appearance. “Caring” for a downtrodden and decaying family consisting in purebloods and Squibs was something that helped strengthening the image of those who fought for the purity of the Wizarding World.

To be the patron of a lower family for the sake of a cause did not mean that Andrian Selwyn, elder scion of the Selwyn family, had to enjoy it, after all.

“Well? Has your brain finally melted, Kneath? Answer now, gormless arsemonger,” he growled, his snarl marring whatever Iorath may have found appealing of the man.

Ysbail, Iorath’s sycophantic and pretentious mother, was the one to answer. “He’s done it, Master Selwyn! The muggle is gone! He’s rotting away already!” she said, trying to conceal the terror that took over when she saw her son using the Killing Curse. Her success was moderate at best.

Selwyn glared at Ysbail, “Should I ask for your worthless opinion, disgusting crone, I’ll have it. Only then. Until that happens, remain silent,” he gnarled. Ysbail was again possessed by terror, and suddenly took a lot of interest in her feet. Iorath would have found it amusing if he was not tired of his mother’s pretentious antics.

Nott, still masked and hooded, spoke at last, “The boy did just fine. A wondrous act of manipulation indeed, followed by a decent display of power.”

Selwyn snorted. “Far too much flattery for the uphill gardener, Nott. You expect me to believe that?”

“The Kneath boy did falter when he first casted the Killing Curse, but his Cruciatus was finely executed. The muggle filth twisted in agony for a long while, until he begged Kneath to kill him. Then, at that moment, Kneath casted the Killing Curse with utmost effectiveness,” he said appraisingly. Or that is what appeared. Iorath knew that Nott twisted the truth into making him seem more vindictive than what he really was. The blond wizard could not fathom why he was making such an effort for him.

Still, it appeared to have worked, as Selwyn raised one pale eyebrow, looking at Iorath. “Is that so?” he drawled, entertained.

“Perhaps there is hope for you, boy. If you abstain from your deviations, that is,” he almost purred, smirking. “The Dark Lord often forces those who mar our world to beg for death, after a bit of _encouragement_.”

Iorath tried his best to remain composed, but a mix of anger and the remnants of fear forced him to tremble slightly. Selwyn took notice of it.

“What’s wrong, boy? Again with the cold feet? You’ve just helped purify this world. There’s no going back from it. Either you go all the way and achieve greatness or you stall and rot along with the mudbloods and muggles.”

Nott once again spoke on Iorath’s behalf, a hint of annoyance revealing itself in his tone: “Kneath is most certainly aware of that, dear Selwyn. I’m more concerned with the remaining part of our... procedure. Kneath’s initiation into our ranks is not just for his sake, but for the Dark Lord’s greater plan. Surely you haven’t forgotten in your, ah, toasting pastime.”

Selwyn’s glare and growl at the older man would have been enough to deter both Ysbail and Iorath, but if Nott was impressed by it, he was not showing it. Instead, he approached Selwyn and took the bottle of Firewhisky. He threw it against a wall, breaking it and its contents further wetting the walls.

“What the hell are you doing, old man?!” Selwyn bellowed.

Nott’s voice was even colder and silkier than before. “Helping you concentrate on the task at hand, my good Selwyn. Perhaps I should call the Dark Lord and mention him of your lack of commitment?”

Selwyn kept his snarl and grunts, but refrained from forming a coherent sentence. Iorath knew that even he would fear whatever punishment the Dark Lord had in store for him, were he responsible for failure.

The older Death Eater nodded. “You know what to do then. Let us go on.”

The blond, blue eyed dark wizard put on his hood and mask. He went for a window in the living room and opened it. Then, he produced his ebony wand and pointed it towards the night sky.

“ _Morsmordre,_ ” he whispered.

Soon, an enormous skull apparently composed by emerald stars with a serpent for tongue appeared in the heavens. Selwyn put his wand into his robes and nodded at Nott.

“Good. They shall be here soon.”

Iorath knew he had to be prepared for what was in store for him.

He also knew that nothing in his life prepared him for this.


	2. Feeding Bait, Eating Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Mark serves its purpose: two Aurors have come to the Kneath basement.

### Feeding Bait, Eating Bait

The emerald shape of a skull with a malign serpent protruding from its mouth was on the dark sky. Liam Davis shuddered at the sight, for the young Auror knew what that figure meant. The Death Eaters had killed someone this night.

He gestured to Robert Ainsley, a brown-haired, thin-built short man wearing dark blue robes similar to his own. Ainsley was a fellow Auror who began working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement a few months before Liam. He was in charge of guiding him in his first tasks as a member of the law enforcement organization. Generally impatient, yet well natured, Ainsley was worried about much of what was going on almost as much as Liam.

They were dispatched from London a few days ago after several incidents regarding the local muggle population. The citizens of Rhyl, particularly muggle law enforcers (policemen, Ainsley would often remind him) and criminals had been apparently forced to do things against their will, such as thievery and kidnapping in the case of the former. The later, on the other hand, were often found dead on the streets, with little to no marks.

Liam did not expect to see the Dark Mark this night, however. This would be his second encounter with the so-called Death Eaters: a terrorist organization composed by dark wizards who committed heinous deeds in the name of what they called “blood purity”. Half-bloods like him and Squibs would be second-rate citizens in their imagined regime, while “mudbloods” (witches and wizards born to muggle parents) “stole” magic and had to be eliminated. The non-magical folk, meanwhile, either would be erased from the world as well or reduced to slavery. The younger Auror shuddered at the thought.

Ainsley could see his worry and scoffed, “You can’t let these pureblood maniacs get to you, matey. We’re more than prepared to deal with them.”

Liam looked at Ainsley and slowly nodded. “I’m sorry sir, it’s just that... Well, the last case was not something you see everyday,” he stammered, a wince marring his freckled face.

The shorter man grunted in disgust. “They are a horrible bunch, it’s true. But they can be defeated. We’ve proved this when dealing with the Gibbon brat.”

And that was enough to bring Liam back to the gruesome memory. A muggle family butchered in London, their two children included. Their remains were all over the house. According to Ainsley, similar crimes had been committed by the pureblood maniacs. The Blasting Curse was often involved, as was in this case. Gibbon, the Death Eater responsible for this muggle family’s murder, was captured by Liam and Ainsley after a difficult fight. The Gibbon man was probably a pyromaniac of some sort, if his love for the Blasting Curse was anything to go by when they subdued him.

“Snap out of it, Davis. I need you aware of your own surroundings,” said Ainsley harshly. He then pointed at a ruined building of several flats. The Dark Mark precisely above it.

“We’ve found the location. Now, on to the target,” whispered Ainsley. Davis once again nodded silently. Ainsley raised his eyebrow.

“You’re too quiet, kid. One thing’s subtlety and stealth, another thing is sheer shock,” he told him.

Liam hesitated to answer at first, but he did, stammering. “I... I’m worried, is all! I... My girlfriend was expecting me a few days ago,” he finished lamely. The shorter man threw him a sympathetic look.

“She doesn’t know you’re a wizard?” he asked.

Liam shook his head. “What’s worse. She... she’s pregnant.”

There was an awkward silence for a minute as they both stood on the street, across the marked building. Liam’s expression was one of desperation, while Ainsley stared at him. The shorter man sighed.

“What did you tell her you were doing? She must be suspicious, right?”

Liam’s mouth formed a thin line. “Family business. I told Rebecah that my mother was ill, so I would be leaving for Liverpool for a few days,” he answered. The older Auror frowned.

“Has your girl tried to contact you?” he asked. Liam nodded.

“Yes. My mother’s a witch as well, though. When Rebecah called her, she knew what to say.” Liam’s eyes narrowed. “Still, she told me Rebecah was growing increasingly suspicious. She offered to go to help,” he winced again.

“I understand. ‘Tis hard to explain to your muggle loved ones things of our world, let alone _our_ specific job. I would know, given all my family are muggles,” said Ainsley in a consoling tone. He patted Liam on the shoulder.

“Still, all the more reason to hurry up and finish our task here. I admit, Wales isn’t my favourite place in the world, and Rhyl even less so,” he finished. Then he gestured Liam to go across the street, towards the marked building. When they arrived, they looked at their surroundings to ensure that no witness was around. Then, they took out their wands.

“ _Revelio_ ,” whispered Liam.

Nothing happened. Both Liam and Ainsley frowned.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if these blighters were prepared for us,” muttered Ainsley under his breath. He began incantations of his own.

“ _Protego Máxima_. _Salvio Hexia_ ,” he chanted in a windy, low voice. White-blue lights surrounded Liam and Ainsley. Liam was thankful for Ainsley’s presence; his talent at protective charms was quite beyond his own.

They stood on the dirty street for a few minutes, analyzing the building from the outside. It looked even more ruined from up-close. Several parts of the wall seemed decayed and needed renewal, which was obviously not coming anytime soon. When he looked up, Liam could see clothes cluttered, hanging from the windows as if the owners were hoping them to dry, despite the natural damp weather of both Wales and Great Britain as a whole. Liam deduced this was a more working-class area within Rhyl.

Ainsley remained wary of any movement or sign beyond the hovering Dark Mark. However, silence was the only company for the two men. The shorter wizard snarled in annoyance.

“If this turns out to be some sort of prank, I’ll have the idiot Kissed in Askaban just for the lack of common sense,” he spat.

Liam shook his head. “I don’t think this is a prank at all, Ainsley. Not in the middle of a conflict, and not with this eerie silence... We’re falling into a trap,” he finished, his voice going slightly higher with concern.

Ainsley looked at him with anger at first, and then he narrowed his eyes in thought. “You may be right. These blighters might be cleverer than we thought,” he muttered. Then he did movements with his wand once again, simultaneously followed by incantations. More protective spells and counter-courses covered the two wizards once more.

However, everything remained still, other than a few lampposts with a barely-working light bulb which sporadically emitted energy in two of the street corners.

Until something finally moved behind a wall close to the building. A man in his thirties, black-greying hair and vacant blue eyes started walking towards Liam and Ainsley, his mouth hanging open and one of his hands missing. His back was apparently hunched.

Liam was the first to react, pointing his wand at the stranger and shouted “Stop there! Department of Magical Law Enforcement! Were you the one who summoned the Dark Mark?”

The man did not reply. With his eyes still unfocused and his mouth open, he lunged at Liam and Ainsley. Liam flourished his wand and aimed at the aggressive stranger.

“ _Stupefy_!” he exclaimed, and a red blast went straight to the stranger’s chest. The Stunning Spell seemed to throw the man back, almost to the floor. However, he soon was standing on his feet again and lunged at Liam and Ainsley once more. The two of them split in order to flank and confound the aggressor.

“ _Impedimenta_!” Ainsley bellowed, his wand aiming at the attacker. A turquoise blast fell upon the man. The Impediment Jynx seemed to have little to no effect; the man was still relatively agile and swift in his movements.

“ _Stupefy_!” casted Liam again. The red energy projected at the attacker had the same effect as before. Perhaps even less than before, since the man quickly recovered and resumed his onslaught.

Ainsley’s face, now covered in sweat after narrowly avoiding the man’s attacks, brightened up in realization. He pointed his wand at the upclosing attacker.

“ _Incendio_!” he hissed.

This time, the man actually seemed harmed by the fires that engulfed his hunched body. That did not stop him, however, from grabbing Ainsley’s arm and start biting it savagely. The aggressor took Ainsley’s wand with his remaining hand and tore it apart. Liam, horrified, lifted his wand at the burning man and casted another Stunning Spell. This threw the stranger away. The flames kept drowning him until there was little remaining beyond bones and charred skin. The smell was enough to make Liam wince in disgust. He then went to Ainsley and tried to heal his arm with a Wiggenweld Potion he carried in his belt.

“What did you just do, Ainsley?!” The shorter man scoffed before groaning in pain once more. After the wound was closed, he replied.

“That was an Inferius, Davis. Not a man anymore, but the tool of one of these blighters. Their leader is rumoured to have an army of them.” Liam’s eyes went wide, and Ainsley scoffed again.

“Don’t soil your pants yet, Davis. He’s most certainly not around. If he was, we would be facing many more of these creatures rather than a single, stray one. What’s more, this one was relatively weak. Probably the _artwork_ of a lesser Dark Wizard.”

Ainsley’s eyes glinted.

“We’re on the right track, though.”

Liam, however, was not as enthused as Ainsley. “You’ve no wand, sir. We-we must go back and bring in reinforcements,” he spoke with a slight stutter. Ainsley replied with a shook of his head.

“There are three different raids going on at London, and other four at different points of Scotland. We cannot afford the human resources, Davis,” he said with a degree of exhaustion, looking at the remains of his broken wand. He then squinted his eyes at him “Besides, where’s your Gryffindor valour? You gonna let a Hufflepuff mudblood show more balls than you?”

Liam winced at his words “Don’t use that slur, Ainsley. Not even joking. And it’s not cowardice! Or better said not just cowardice, but common sense as well. We’re at a handicap.”

Ainsley raised one eyebrow. “I think you’re more than capable. And if that poor excuse of an Inferius was the best our target could manage, I think that you’ll be more than enough.”

“You _thought_ that was weak?” the younger wizard asked in disbelief. To that, Ainsley chuckled.

“Inferi are often physically stronger than the average human. You could say their strength makes up for their lack of sentience. This one? Nothing but a pretty ugly toy. Whoever made this Inferius was pretty mediocre at it. I could do better, I’m sure,” he explained with some macabre amusement. Liam frowned, but preferred not to say anything of his colleague’s humour. There were other things at stake.

“You don’t think that whoever we’re after is particularly strong, then,” he said.

Ainsley shrugged, his face apathetic. “At the very least, not very good at making Inferi. Probably some lower Death Eater, but they’re not You-Know-Who or any of his stronger lieutenants,” he pondered. Then, he asked “You saw where that came from?”

Liam nodded. “The Inferius came from the back of the building. Probably from where its basement is.”

The shorter Auror rolled his eyes “Of course those tossers would be hiding at a basement. They have to pretend they’re dark and gloomy sorcerers,” he made a gargling noise and spitted at the floor. “Well, we better get there, don’t we?”

Liam shook his head again, which made Ainsley fume. “I cannot let you go wandless. It’s insanity. If you insist on pursuing the madman behind the Inferius and the Dark Mark, then I’ll do so alone, but you stay put.”

If Ainsley was fuming before, he now looked incensed. “I’m not some doe-eyed broad as to be left behind, Davis. I’m coming. What’s more, if something happened to you, you’ll need a witness that can go back to the Ministry and warn them.”

The younger Auror sighed in exasperation. “No, stay here, Ainsley. I can take care of it myself. I won’t be needing any witness or the like.” Ainsley’s bemused expression changed into a slight sneer.

“And here I thought you weren’t Gryffindor enough. As thick, stubborn and suicidal as any of your fellow house mates, you are. I’m coming and that’s final, Davis,” he grunted.

Liam sighed again, this time in resignation. “Whatever, Ainsley. I only hope we don’t regret this.” Ainsley chortled at that.

“If you think that we Aurors are useless without wands and magic, then you’ve been a piss-poor Auror so far, boy. Don’t worry, I don’t intend to be a load.”

The taller young man shrugged, not willing to keep the discussion any longer. He soundlessly gestured towards the door leading to the building’s basement. It was locked.

“ _Alohomora_ ,” whispered Liam while pointing his wand at the lock. The door silently opened. Liam and Ainsley entered the building, trying to do as little noise as possible.

They were welcomed by a small room with a few cleaning instruments, a mop and some detergent and another door. The walls seemed even worse than from outside: green, damp and festering with fungi. Liam tried to open the inner door without magic and succeeded. He and Ainsley went past it and found themselves with an equally rotten corridor leading to a dead end.

Ainsley frowned and inspected the wall at the end of the corridor. He then smirked.

“A lesser illusion. Cast Revelio upon the wall, Davis, so that we may proceed,” he ordered. Liam produced his wand from his robes once again and casted the spell. Soon, the wall banished and the corridor made itself longer.

“Stupid, pretentious twits, them Dark Wizards. Putting an Illusion Charm on a corridor to make it seem shorter. If there was a maze or the like but no, just a longer corridor. Pointless,” he muttered with disgust as they walked. The scare lighting was dim, giving Liam a sense of eeriness. Ainsley was apparently unfazed, as he kept muttering about Dark Wizards with annoyance.

The Aurors found another door in the end of the decaying corridor. Much like before, it was unlocked. Liam was wary. It was all too easy. It was clear they were falling directly into a trap

“This isn’t right, Ainsley,” he sputtered at last. Ainsley nodded

“You’re right, Davis. We’re being expected by the blighters,” he agreed. Then he spoke in a lower voice, “Use the Presence Reveal charm, lad.”

Liam nodded and obeyed, his wand once again dancing in the air. “ _Homenum Revelio_ ,” he recited under his breath. Nothing happened.

“Well, either we’re following a false lead, or they’ve got a counter-charm prepared for that one spell,” Ainsley ssaid tentatively. Liam was not pleased with any of the possible explanations. And he was less pleased with what Ainsley was to do next.

“Only one way to find out, lad,” he said jovially as he opened the door with no apparent worry or fear.

How was that man ever sorted into Hufflepuff and not Liam’s own House? He certainly was reckless and foolish enough to be the stereotype of a Gryffindor, thought Liam bitterly as he followed Ainsley with reluctance, a disapproving frown formed in his face. Ainsley pretended not to notice.

The room they found themselves in was as rotten as the corridor that preceded it. The walls remained damp, fungi being a far too common sight by now. There was an unpleasant stench of humidity. In the centre of the room there were a handful of chairs and a simple table. The few walls that had any decoration exhibited serpentine ornaments and a genealogical tree. Liam approached to see it better.

“The Kneath family tree,” he said.

“Kneath?” repeated Ainsley.

Liam pursed his lips before talking again. “A lesser pureblood family. When I studied at Hogwarts, there were three students that had that surname, two girls and a boy. The three were sorted into Slytherin.”

Ainsley sneered. “That explains the stupid snakelike decorations. Doesn´t explain the rubbish bin of a residence this is, though. Aren’t all Slytherins supposed to be upper-class, pure-blooded knobs?” To that, Liam raised an eyebrow.

“You think the Weasleys and their ilk are upper-class, pure-blooded knobs, Ainsley? They’re purebloods, alright, but still poor,” said the younger Auror. “Many families which _are pure of blood,_ as they like to say, are still in the unlucky side of wealth all the same,” he proceded.

Liam pointed at some of the figures in the paper displaying the Kneath genealogical tree. “Many of the Kneaths were Squibs. Supposedly, the first child of the marriage was revealed as a Squib and their misfortunes began there. In order to fit in with the pureblood maniacs, the Kneaths resorted to inbreeding,” explained the freckled young man. Ainsly’s disgusted sneer deepened

“Some sort of pureblood pretenders, then?” he asked Liam. He nodded at that.

“What’s more, when Cantankerus Nott wrote the Pureblood Directory, the Kneaths were among the many families that made a fit for not being included among the Sacred Twenty Eight. Nott argued that the large presence of Squibs polluted the Kneath family, even if they resorted into marrying cousins and giving births to witches and wizards. I think their misfortune worsened with Nott’s pureblood propaganda,” he concluded

Ainsley snorted. “And here I thought them pureblood maniacs were bad enough. Now we have to deal with their arse-lickers. Tossers, all of them. At least it explains that this place is a pigsty,” he gargled and spit at the floor. Liam snarled in disgust, but refrained from speaking any further.

The shorter Auror then raised his eyebrow while looking at Liam. “You knew these Kneath fellas, Davis?” he asked.

Liam shrugged “I knew they existed. I was sorted into Gryffindor the same year one of the sisters and the male cousin were sorted. The other sister came to Hogwarts two years later. But you know that Gryffindors and Slytherins don’t tend to mingle.”

Ainsley seemed to consider the words for a while “You didn’t have an input about them from anyone? They don’t seem to be the type to fall into an organization of powerful wizards as the Death Eaters.”

Liam was pensive for a few seconds as well, then replied. “I remember the younger sister, Mairwen. She did not stand out that much from Slytherin girls. A gossipy, twisted hen, she was. The other two, her older sister and a male cousin, were quiet as a Thestral. I don’t even remember their names. And I was in the same year as them, mind you.”

The shorter Auror’s eyebrows nearly faded into his forehead. “Well, they certainly don’t sound... or smell like the sort of folk Death Eaters would allow among them. They had to have some sort of talent, other than rabble-rousing,” he conjectured. Liam shrugged.

“As I said, we were not great acquaintances precisely.” He then glanced once again at the genealogical tree. “Say, do you recognise this woman, Ainsley?” he pointed at the moving image of an older, hazel-eyed woman, her faced marred by an ugly sneer and slightly early lines of age.

Ainsley looked at the moving photograph and sneered back at it. “Ysbail Kneath. I remember her as one of those nutters who screeched at Nott for not including them in the Pureblood Directory. Also a friend of Mulciber Sr and a sycophant to the Selwyn family. All in all, an unpleasant minger,” he spat. He looked at Liam “Come to think of it, boy, I can see that broad trying to appeal to You-Know-Who. And being awarded with a rejection,” he finished with a short chortle.

The younger Auror ignored Ainsley’s attempt at humour. He looked past Ysbail, his former fellow student (apparently called Iorath) and their ancestors, and concentrated on the two girls he knew and their branch of the family. While there were Squibs in Ysbail and her son’s branch of the Kneath family, they were few when compared to those to the two girls’s own branch. Their two parents were Squibs, and were crossed out with ink.

Ainsley looked at the family tree and his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Look at all the cousins marrying between themselves. The huge amount of Squibs is probably their inbreeding doing its own magic,” he grunted. Liam thought that made some sense. He kept looking intently at the marked Squibs in the tree. He wondered why the parents of the so-far-youngest Kneath girls were crossed out.

“My uncle was foolish enough to participate in the Squib’s marches and got himself and my aunt killed, Davis,” a tenor voice came from behind, surprising both Aurors. They swiftly turned around to see a blond, gaunt young man with heavy bags under his hazel eyes, a dishevelled brown coat over a stained shirt and brown trousers pointing his wand at them. Liam returned the gesture. The blond stranger curled his lips slightly.

“I thought you wanted to know, by how you were looking at our family tree. No need to be so defensive,” he said, feigning innocence. Ainsley snarled at him.

“So you’re the Death Eater responsible for the Dark Mark and that pathetic excuse of an Inferius. Should have known that a nancy boy was behind it all,” he growled at the blond man. He answered with an ironic smile, his eyes looking upon the shorter man with derision.

“Better being a nancy boy than a mudblood,” he drawled. “Oh, no need to get all worked up, Auror,” he noticed Ainsley’s face redden in fury. “At best, wandless dirt like you could only scratch me a little while. Hmm, come to think of it...” he gave a low, mocking chuckle, which only served to further incense the short Auror.

“You’re Iorath Kneath, right? You’ll come with us now. You are required for interrogation,” spoke Liam, aiming his wand at the blond wizard, who raised his eyebrow at him.

“You got the name right, Davis. Good to see you can read, I doubt you would remember me,” he said. Liam’s stony expression did not change.

“As I said, you are to come with us now. Willingly or not.”

Kneath smirked at Liam, unfazed by his warning. “Well, we’re having a reunion, that much is true. Our lovely basement would not have allowed you in were you not expected, after all. But it shall be on our terms, I’m afraid.”

The younger, taller Auror looked at the suspected Death Eater, both wands still raised. “Last warning, Kneath,” he growled. Kneath kept smirking, apparently unimpressed by his possible foe.

Liam then decided that the time for words was over. This Death Eater was going straight to Azkaban today.

“ _Impedimenta_ ,” the Auror bellowed, and the turquoise blast went towards Kneath. The man whispered and moved his wand, and a silvery-white wall of light stopped the incoming charm. Stupid shield charms, thought Liam with annoyance.

Then Kneath fired a spell of his own. The familiar red light of a Stunning Spell went straight for Liam, who narrowly avoided it. The blast fell upon one of the serpentine stone ornaments, breaking it into little pieces.

“ _Confringo_!” cried Liam, aiming next to Kneath. The explosion managed at least to throw the Death Eater off his balance, his left arm injured with a small burn, but he avoided the worst of it. Ainsley, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.

“ _Diffindo_!” Kneath hissed, pain and shock from the small explosion still hindering his movements. Liam crouched just in time to avoid the Severing Charm going for his throat, but it still managed to slash his left cheek. Liam hissed in pain, but his wand was still aiming at Kneath. He shot a few Stunning Spells, but all of them were stopped by Kneath’s Shield Charm.

The blond man sneered at Liam. “Enough games, Davis. _Crucio_!” and the horrid Torture Curse went for Liam. The young Auror answered quickly, pointing his wand at one of the chairs. “Accio!” he exclaimed, and the chair flied to Iorath, shielding him from the Unforgivable Curse and shattering apart. Kneath seemed truly annoyed for once. Then, he started wincing in apparent pain.

Ainsley appeared from under the table, punching Iorath in his groin. He then tried to gain hold of him, but Iorath managed to avoid both his grasp and Liam’s curses and spells. He looked at the shorter Auror, his eyes glinting with hate “You’ll pay for that, mudblood!” he hissed. Ainsley smirked at him.

“I thought you like it rough, inbred nancy,” he spat, then gestured at Liam to keep firing his curses. Kneath barely avoided the Stunning Spells that came from the younger Auror. The Death Eater, now truly angered by both of his enemies, aimed his wand at Ainsley.

“ _Imperio_ ,” and suddenly, Ainsley went right to a Stunning Charm that Liam threw at Kneath. The shorter man was thrown back, his face showing no pain whatsoever; a blissful smile was carved upon Ainsley’s features.

Kneath made flourishing gestures with his wand, and the short Auror lunged himself at his colleague, the eerily joyous smile unchanging. He managed to tackle Liam and throw him to the floor. Then, Ainsley was hit by the red blast of Kneath’s Stunning Spell and fell unconscious over his fellow Auror. Liam held to his wand with futility; he knew the battle was over.

“Expelliarmus!” hissed Kneath, and Liam’s wand suddenly left his fingers, dropping to the floor. “Accio wand”, he whispered, and the Auror’s wand went straight to Iorath’s free hand. The Dark wizard smirked triumphantly.

“ _Incarcerous_ ,” he finished, and his last spell summoned ropes around both Liam and Ainsley’s bodies, subduing them.

“You may come now,” he said, and two figures Apparated into the room, while another one suddenly appeared, probably abandoning his Disillusionment Charm. Two of them were robbed and masked; fellow Death Eaters. The other one was relatively elderly woman of hazel eyes, similar to Iorath’s. Liam observed that she was probably beautiful in her youth, but her stooped body and emaciated figure gave her a withering appearance.

Liam mentally cursed Ainsley. He knew this would end badly, and now the worst scenario was about to take place.

Iorath Kneath bowed his head to Selwyn, the taller robbed figure. “Master Selwyn, the Aurors have fallen right into your trap. They-“ but was stopped by a punch right into his mouth by the Death Eater. Iorath fell gracelessly to the floor.

“That is what you call fighting, boy? You were humiliated by a wandless mudblood, of all things!” the tall Death Eater howled at Iorath. The shorter hooded figure grabbed Selwyn by the arm, restraining him from further attacking Iorath.

“At ease. This was his first encounter with Aurors, and he achieved the minimum objectives, Selwyn. Do not waste strength in tormenting him when we are to begin the festivities,” said Nott. Iorath was unsure whether to thank the man for his support; whatever interest he may have in him was most certainly not selfless. Tristam Nott was, after all, related to Cantankerus Nott, the man who denied his family the entrance to the Pureblood Directory and the membership of the Sacred Twenty Eight. He doubted the man regretted his relative’s actions towards the Kneath family.

Iorath got up with slight difficulty, still holding his bruising cheek. His lower lip was bleeding. The blond wizard thought he would never get used to Selwyn’s physical punishments. Ever since he was put in charge of being the “voucher” for the Kneath family in exchange for menial services, the tall Death Eater had an intense dislike towards Ysbail’s only son. Something that he shared with his loving mother, thought Iorath bitterly.

Ysbail was not in the mood to scream at him, luckily. She was in one of her sycophantic games towards Selwyn and Nott. “My son committed mistakes, yes. But we’ve got the Aurors, Master Selwyn. We’ve got this filth!” she shrieked with glee.

Selwyn was unimpressed. “It appears living amongst muggles has addled your already deficient brain, old woman. If I do not ask you, you do not speak,” he growled. Then, he glared at Iorath. “To think I wasted three whole hours with your muggle to make an Inferius and you are humiliated by a mudblood! A sodding mudblood!” he ranted.

Nott interrupted his comrade, his voice harsher than before. “That is quite enough, Selwyn. You’re the one slowing us down. Stop sulking and let us get on with our plan,” he hissed.

Selwyn’s masked and hooded head looked at Nott, but said nothing. Iorath knew that the man was probably furious, but he knew better than testing a veteran Death Eater’s wrath.

Nott then looked at the captured Aurors. “From what Kneath’s contacts in Rhyl gather, you’re a half-blood, aren’t you, boy?” he asked at the freckled, auburn-haired wizard. The man remained silent.

“So we have a mute one. Playing hero or about to piss yourself if you so much speak a word?” Selwyn drawled, his voice mocking. “Perhaps we should take the information the old way.”

The shorter, thin man snarled at the Death Eaters. “You may as well try, tosser,” he growled. At that, Selwyn took his wand out of his robes and was about to cast a curse upon the captured Auror, but Nott stopped him.

“Enough!” he bellowed, not hiding his anger at Selwyn any longer. “Your lack of restraint is starting to annoy me, Selwyn. I shall report this if you keep up with that poor display of volatility!”

Selwyn once again remained silent, only bated breathing coming from him. Iorath knew the man was beyond incensed now.

Nott then looked at the Aurors. “Your lack of cooperation will be noted, though I admit, if Iorath’s intelligence is true, then I should not expect too much of you,” his masked face lowered its concealed gaze towards Ainsley. “Creatures of filth, after all, are lacking in proper manners, among other things.” Ainsley sneered, but said nothing. Davis, the other Auror, approached to Ainsley and whispered something to him. Selwyn took notice of it.

“No secrets among us, cross-bred mongrel.” Nott actually nodded at that.

“Indeed. Now, will you do it or I have to do this myself, Selwyn?”

The taller Death Eater snorted. “I’ve already spent plenty of useful time doing the damn Inferius to lure these fools. You may call the Dark Lord this time,” he snapped. Nott merely shrugged.

“As you wish, Selwyn.”

Then, he grabbed his left arm and revealed his bare skin, a gruesome drawing upon his skin. The familiar image of a skull with a snake for a tongue, its tale seemingly dancing around the skull showed itself. Davis, Ainsley and Ysbail’s eyes went wide with fear. Iorath himself was apprehensive of what was about to happen. Nott then put his middle and index finger upon the Dark Mark in his arm.

Suddenly, green flashes of light mixed with a black mist started forming in the Kneath Family’s decaying living room. From the tornado of magical energy a tall, extremely thin man appeared. His skin was bone-white; his eyes red with cat-like pupils and his face had slits for nostrils; no nose to be seen; he bore similitude to a snake. He was one of the most terrifying and powerful beings alive. The reason behind heir dark rebellion. The one who would purify the Wizarding World from its mudded pustules.

Iorath, Nott and Sewlyn kneeled as Lord Voldemort stepped from the green-black vortex of mist. Ysbail Kneath dropped to the floor in pitiful worship.

Davis and Ainsley, meanwhile, were pale. Still, Iorath could see Davis nudge the mudblood with his elbow. The blond wizard frowned. They surely could not be planning to fool the Dark Lord. They were imprisoned; they could do nothing to avoid their fate.

The Dark Lord finally spoke, his voice high and reminiscent of a hissing serpent. “Nott. Selwyn. I trust your good judgement that you made me come for a good reason.”

The kneeling robed figures of Nott and Selwyn were trembling slightly. Iorath could not blame them. The Dark Lord was an imposing man. The power he emanated filled him with terror. Even powerful servants of him such as Tristam Nott were beneath him in every aspect.

“Well? I am waiting for your explanation, gentlemen,” his high voice spoke.

“My Lord,” spoke Nott at last, his voice humble and lacking of the drawling, mocking tone that Iorath knew so well, “the Auror officers you requested are here. They fit the profile you needed.”

Lord Voldemort’s face appeared emotionless. “Do they? Have you thoroughly checked the blood status, Nott?”

This time, it was Selwyn who spoke. “The welsh boy’s information claims that one of them is a half-blood, my Lord. The other one’s a mudblood, but he may also be of use.”

The Dark Lord’s red eyes glared at Selwyn. “Are you speaking out of turn, Selwyn?” he asked calmly. Selwyn’s trembling was worse by now.

“Forgive me, my Lord. I-I’m most ashamed-“

“Good, Selwyn. Good. Humility sometimes begets better rewards.” He then directed his garnet gaze at Iorath. The young man looked at the floor.

“I heard a few things of you. Iorath Kneath, right?” he asked to the blond wizard.

Iorath silently nodded, his eyes still focused on the floor as he kneeled.

“It was you who brought the muggle from which Selwyn did a... lacking imitation of an Inferius, right? And the one behind the use of the Imperius curse on the muggle’s local government officials?”

Iorath nodded once again. He had a feeling that the Dark Lord already knew the answers just by looking down on him.

“You would be right, young man,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. Iorath trembled. “At ease, Kneath. I am most pleased with what you have done so far. You have been a useful lieutenant in this muggle section, your rousing of the more colourful elements of wizarding society... And now you bring before me two Aurors.”

The Dark Lord sounded pleased. “Indeed, you have been a useful tool so far, Kneath. Selwyn and Nott were right to put their trust in you. You have aided in putting agents of our cause in Wales. And now you are to answer a higher calling.”

Voldemort was about to continue, when a noise suddenly interrupted them and forced the kneeling persons in the room to rise in surprise. The muggleborn Auror Ainsley was starting to vanish. The Dark Lord seemed to have anticipated this, and snapped his fingers. Suddenly, a leg belonging to Ainsley was left within the ropes, and started bleeding profusely. The man himself was barely in the door, and he was also starting to bleed, his leg missing. His face was contorted with pain. Voldemort’s snake-like face smiled at him.

“A bold attempt. You mudbloods are such entertaining creatures. Were I of your standing, I would have never attempted to Dissapparate without a wand,” he mocked the short Auror, whose face, still crumpled in pain, attempted to answer with a snarl.

That mudblood was a witless piece of filth, thought Iorath, even though a degree of pity invaded the back of his mind, along with some admiration for the foolish magic-thief.

Lord Voldemort kept smiling. “It was amusing all the same. It was a long time since I saw someone Splinch. Perhaps we should see a bit more,” he said, dark glee evident in his voice. He then directed his red eyes to Iorath.

“Use the Imperius Curse and make him Apparate,” he ordered Iorath. The young man, trying to hid his hesitance, complied. He aimed his wand at Ainsley.

“ _Imperio_ ” he recitated. And Ainsley’s face was once again smiling, though the bliss seemed slightly weaker than before. Then, Iorath flourished his wand and forced the Auror to Apparate.

Voldemort snapped his fingers once again, and this time Ainsley was missing his right arm, which was left in the living room’s exit. Another fountain of blood was added, while Ainsley’s face seemed to be struggling between the feeling of sheer joy and excruciating pain. Iorath saw Davis look elsewhere, his eyes filled with tears and his body shaking terribly.

“Again, Kneath,” said the Dark Lord, amused at the horrid spectacle. Iorath noticed that both Nott and Selwyn were looking elsewhere. Even they were terrified by this horrible torture. Ysbail, meanwhile, was silently sobbing.

“Again, I said,” this time, the Dark Lord hissed angrily. Kneath felt his kneews betray him, and he repeated the Imperius curse upon Ainsley. After another snapping of fingers by Lord Voldemort, the remaining leg was torn from Ainsley when he was forced to apparate. Then, his left arm was victim of the forced Splinching, this time Apparating on the table.

“Now, remove the Imperius curse, Kneath,” he said smoothly. Iorath, ever so obedient, complied.

Ainsley started screaming until his throat was sore, and then he did some gurgling noises. Voldemort looked down at him, a cruel smile dancing in his serpentine face. Ysbail’s sobbing was slightly louder, though Iorath could see she was mustering all her strength to hold back. Davis, the still imprisoned Auror, was now openly weeping in fear. Nott and Selwyn were trembling, but remained silent, trying to ignore the agonizing, mutilated man. Lord Voldemort went towards Ainsley, his face now at a breath’s distance from his own. The gurgling sounds from Ainsley’s throat were

“That, gentlemen, is what happens to those who steal magic from proper wizards. Eventually,” and then he took out his wand. He aimed at the throat.

“...They are exposed as the thieves they are. _Sectumsempra_ ,” he hissed.

The head of the man was cut off from his torso, and when it fell and made contact with the floor it exploded into two pieces, the brain doing a disgusting single bounce. A horrid pool of blood decorated by the organs and external remains of the muggleborn Auror was formed on the living room’s table. The macabre show had come to an end.

The Dark Lord then went towards the remaining Auror.

“Look at me, child,” he whispered. Slowly, Davis’ tear-filled eyes dared to rise to meet the Dark Lord’s terrible garnet gaze. The snake-like man looked into his eyes for a while until he sneered in disgust.

“You’ve decided to mate with muggles? Your bloodline is blemished enough already, Davis.” The Auror did not reply. He was still trembling and trying to hold his sobbing.

Lord Voldemort then looked at his eyes once more. “You should be thankful the good man Kneath and Selwyn found a use for you. You’ve seen what happens to mudbloods, Davis, I trust that you obey... without question,” he spoke slowly. Then, suddenly, Davis started screaming, as if he was being burned alive.

“No! No, I beg you, please! Don’t do anything to her, I beg you! I’ll obey-I’ll obey!” the Auror wailed, face contorted with utter terror and mucus flowing from his nose. He was a pathetic, yet sobering sight. A testament to Lord Voldemort’s power.

“Then you will do as I require, Davis?” the Dark Lord asked simply, a smile once again forming in his serpentine face.

The weeping Auror nodded. “I beg you, don’t do anything to her, please! Th-that-that is all I ask of you,” he sobbed.

Lord Voldemort nodded, pleased.

“Don’t worry. When we achieve the world we are fighting for, your child will be alive and you will raise it. And you may relinquish that creature with which you have mated to produce it. It may be tainted blood, but a small bit of magical blood would remain in that child, and we would need it in the world that is to come,” he said with an almost consoling tone.

He directed his crimson eyes to the Death Eaters and Iorath, and the three of them kneeled. Ysbail was crying a bit more silently, and was trembling a little less.

“Well done, all of you. We have gained an informant within the Auror office,” he spoke, a cold satisfaction oozing from every word. Iorath, Selwyn and Nott merely nodded

“However, we do need to keep a few eyes on him. He shall operate in London along with you two,” he said, referring to Nott and Selwyn, “What I ask of you, Davis shall try to aid you with the correct information. You shall leave for the capital shortly,” he instructed. Once again, a silent nod from Selwyn and Nott was response enough.

“Still, the issue of the set of eyes to watch more closely over him remains. Which brings me to the remaining part of the festivities,” he continued, his high, hissing-like voice sounded pensive. The Dark Lord then gazed upon Iorath.

“Your bloodline has been victim to the crimes of magic stealing, despite your ancestors’ great efforts to remain pure. You and dear Ysbail are victims of a society corrupted by those who wish to weaken it with their marred blood,” he began. Iorath was already kneeling, but now he could not take his eyes from the floor as the Dark Lord spoke.

“Even though there have been predecessors of yours that have taken an incorrect approach to your blood’s predicaments, you have done the right thing and denounced them. Isn’t that right, dear Ysbail?”

The older woman, still sobbing on the floor, gave a small nod. Lord Voldemort smiled at her and then looked once again upon the kneeling Iorath.

“A good woman, who has done the Wizarding society a great good by pointing us to her Squib brother and cousin, who had toyed with the idea of improving their status before recovering their magic. Ysbail put the greater good above her own family, something that was sacred even in the times of toil that the Kneath bloodline had to weather.

“As for you, you have done a decent service so far, Kneath. You and your family may have been cursed with the impure stealing the magic from you, and you may have been forced to live among the rabble of both our society and that of muggles. But you decided to fight, to be better than that.

“For that, Iorath Kneath, I offer you a place in our order. I offer you a chance to redeem your cursed bloodline. To clean yourself from your own deviations,” he then grabbed Iorath by the chin and forced him to look into his eyes.

“Will you join our struggle? Will you aid us purify our world? Will you be a Death Eater?” he finally asked, his hissing voice smooth as silk.

Iorath knew that there was no real choice the moment he stared into the Dark Lord’s eyes.

He nodded silently. Lord Voldemort smiled yet again.

“Then give me your left arm, Kneath.”

Iorath obeyed, leaving his inner left forearm exposed. The Dark Lord then aimed his wand. He recited the incantation required. Suddenly, Iorath felt a sharp pain. His whole arm felt as if it was burning. He could feel the blood within the veins of his left arm boil as a black marking designed as the skull with a snake protruding from its mouth appeared. Iorath gave a short cry, and then bit his lip in shame. Lord Voldemort did not seem to mind. He then grabbed his chin once again and forced him to look into his crimson eyes.

“Welcome, Iorath Kneath, to the path of your redemption.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Reviews and general feedback are always welcome. I'm taking a few liberties with how Squibs are viewed by both pureblood ideologists and the rest of society. Out of all the groups, they were probably the least developed and with a contradictory presence (With the Thickneese/Voldie regime, Filch was allowed to remain at Hogwarts and apparently kept tormenting students). I'm trying (hopefully not that badly) to connect the idea of muggleborns "stealing magic" with the existance of Squibs; muggleborns would be a scapegoat for the existance of Squibs, whille the latter were expected to be servants of pureblooded wizards until "their world was purified and magic was returned." All the same, it's better to show rather than tell, and I'm not sure I'm doing the former.


	3. The Joyous Good News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorath and his mother Ysbail share the most recent events with Eiriol and Mairwen, Iorath's cousins. They are also presented to Tristam Nott in a meal they have along with Andrian Selwyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit late, but it's always nice to make this clear, I do not own Harry Potter or the Wizarding World. Iorath, Eiriol, Mairwen and Ysbail's concepts were the few things designed by me along with the story. Everything else belongs to Rowling as it always had.

### The Joyous Good News

Iorath did not sleep the last night. He remained on the bed of his emaciated small room, staring at the ceiling. The events that unravelled were far too overwhelming to internalize swiftly.

While he had used the Imperius curse on a few muggles, more often policemen and lesser local government officials and the occasional criminal rabble, he was never forced to kill in cold blood. He did not even master the Cruciatus curse to the extent some of his new brethren; sadism was not something truly ingrained in him yet. And the Killing curse...

He had to convince himself he was doing an act of mercy. Tristam Nott, unknowingly (or perhaps not), helped him in that grim endeavour. Until then, he had no real desire of murdering the poor vermin and could not bring himself to do it. The homicidal drive behind the Killing curse was something he lacked for now. To actually cast it, to want to end someone's life and do so was something that nearly broke him. The moment Darren went limp on the floor after being submitted to the terrible torture of the Cruciatus curse did not feel like a relief to him. That was the lie he told himself to actually cast the Unforgivable Curse.

Then, seeing Selwyn make use of the corpse, the battle between him and the Aurors (and his humiliating moment with the muggleborn wizard), and Lord Voldemort's appearance... Nothing he had seen, not the physical punishment that he had endured from both his parents and from Selwyn in his adolescence, not facing a Boggart in DADA classes; nothing could compare to the Dark Lord's ominous presence. Nothing could ever hope to compare to his sheer cruelty.

The torture the muggleborn Auror was submitted to in his final moments was something he would never forget. Seeing him being torn apart limb by limb was impossible to bear. Knowing he played a central role in his horrible demise by manipulating his mind churned his stomach. The welsh wizard's hair was filled with dandruff, the bags under his eyes even larger than usual.

He had participated in two murders yesterday. Both were preceded by an agonizing torment that he also caused upon the victims.

Iorath tried to convince himself that there was no other way. His parents had told him as much: the only way to redeem the tainted Kneath bloodline and achieve any kind of betterment was to participate in the purification of the Wizarding World. Only when all magic-thieves were gone would the Squib curse be lifted, and the magic returned to them. And by being part of a powerful organization dedicated to that goal, they would finally move beyond the rabble they were forced to live amongst.

He repeated himself that a thousand times during the night, but the memory of torturing Darren and then using the Killing curse, followed by the Dark Lord's treatment of Ainsley would keep him away from achieving his resolve. Or peace of any kind.

As he stared at the ceiling, his eyes red from the ongoing lack of sleep, he tried to device some way to put his mind out of the committed murders. Having failed at giving justification to his crime, he decided to try and think of things unrelated to the events.

His thoughts travelled to his time at Hogwarts, pretty much the only escape he had from the muggle neighbourhood within Rhyl and his family. Even though his fellow Slytherins would not allow him to forget his status among them, they were still allies on which he could more or less rely. They were certainly less unpleasant than Ysbail, at least.

His attempt to remember happier times to occupy the dead time brought him to a memory that both shamed and elated him. His time with Elliot Flint was one of his most treasured memories, yet also the one that brought Ysbail and Osian's wrath. That wonderful time was, after all, another reason to regard the Kneath family as worthless thrash, as Andrian Selwyn's subtle wording would describe.

Elliot and Iorath had been in the same year, along with his favourite cousin Eiriol. They had similar interests: duelling, potions and mind-affecting charms. Elliot was harsher than Iorath in many aspects, but also more pampered in others, so they complimented nicely as friends. Then, as puberty and adolescence struck them both, they discovered they could compliment each other as something more than friends.

It would not last. In their sixth year, a bunch of younger Gryffindor students would discover and mock them for their relationship. As it happens with places like Hogwarts, secrets end up being common knowledge to the whole school. Elliot's family admonished him and made sure to marry him off swiftly to a pureblood girl of his year. Ysbail and the defunct Osian Kneath, meanwhile, beat him up worse than what he was used to. Osian even used the Memory Charm, in an attempt to "heal" Iorath. It ended up with the young man staying a whole week at St. Mungo, recovering the memories and a moderate degree of mental health.

His father was, despite what Ysbail would claim, a pretty lousy wizard.

The only one who came to his defense was Eiriol. Her parents (Iorath's uncle and aunt) promptly summoned her to their shack, where she was presumably punished as well. Mairwen, Eiriol's younger sister, was spiteful towards him. Unlike Eiriol, who valued the friendship she had with both Elliot and her cousin himself, Mairwen was always seeking ways to better her own status, both within Slytherin and in the eyes of the Sacred Twenty Eight. Having to fight the prejudice towards spawns of Squibs already, a deviated male cousin was not doing her any favours, and she would remind Iorath every time she saw him.

It went worse in his seventh year. He had seen Elliot very few times. The boy was avoiding him consciously, and Iorath was aware of it. He still pretended that there was nothing wrong between them, that they would soon speak. Iorath liked to believe that Elliot was avoiding the harassment of their fellow Slytherins by remaining even more secretive about their relationship.

A fool's hope, he would soon admit. Elliot came to him a few days after the N.E.W.T exams and told him that, if he wanted to survive and improve his lot in life, he should reject his deviations as Elliot had already done.

Iorath's lips formed a thin line, his red eyes always staring at the ceiling. His heart had been broken by the one person he thought he could trust. The one person he thought he could care for. Yet he followed his advice to some extent, and did everything to clean his already blemished surname. His actions in favour of the Death Eaters, advocated by Selwyn and Ysbail, were testaments to the commitment to redemption.

The Dark Lord even recognised his struggle. What's more, he even rewarded his deeds by burning the Dark Mark onto his arm. That was the signal that he was no longer a pitiful, confused young man from a poor, degraded family, but a Death Eater. He was now one of the heralds of the Wizarding's World definite cleaning. He would commit foul deeds for a cause that was greater than him. Iorath and his whole family would be rewarded beyond measure for their valour.

Yet, the memory of the petty criminal Darren and the Auror Ainsley would once again find their way into Iorath's thoughts.

The human mind was truly amusing, thought Iorath bitterly. In such times, it was a circle of misery; no matter how much you try to flee from a horrible memory, you either replace it with a worse one or find yourself thinking the exact thing you were fleeing from. Iorath's eyes stopped staring at the ceiling for once. Instead, they focused on the most recent "triumph": the Dark Mark.

The black skull that seemed to vomit a coiling serpent was a gruesome sight to many. Iorath, however, could only see his last hope at pleasing his family and improving his lot in life. At the same time, however, he could fathom the kind of tasks that would involve being a member of the Death Eaters. Until these two tests, manipulation, rousing of the more peripheral sides of Wizarding society against the Ministry, espionage and forceful information extraction (without the Cruciatus curse involved) were the only duties he had to carry out.

Now there would be several more Darrens and Ainsleys, thought Iorath, staring blankly at the Dark Mark burned into his left arm.

He knew this was the only way, and even if it was not, there was no turning back. To tempt the wrath of a being like the Dark Lord was not something Iorath would ever do. For all his faults, he still upheld the banner of self-preservation that characterized those who had been at Slytherin. He was aware that being a Death Eater meant that the power and wealth that him and his family had sought would be soon within his grasp.

And even then, Darren's shaking body going limp after begging to die and Ainsley's slow mutilation returned once again. It would do so until morning.

It was the right path, Iorath knew, but a foolish, stubborn part of his mind would never agree with him.

A knock on the room's door finally helped distract Iorath.

"Open, boy!" His mother's harsh contralto hollered. Iorath stood up and complied.

"You look even worse than usual," she grunted. Then she narrowed her eyes, looking directly at him. "You managed to sleep, didn't you, boy?"

Iorath shook his head in silence. Ysbail snarled.

"You cannot afford second thoughts now, you little brat. You're the only chance we have now. And it's not as if the Dark Lord had any fondness for traitors and cowards," she said. Her mouth was still marred by a snarl, but Iorath noticed that she was trembling slightly. Whatever appearance she wished to project, Iorath knew she was still shaken from the gruesome events that had transpired yesterday.

"I have not had second thoughts, mother. You don't need to worry," he said dismissively. Ysbail's eyes squinted at him.

"You better not. You've brought enough disappointments to this family thus far," she spat at him. Iorath merely shrugged at that.

"Whatever you say mother. It astounds me that you insist on probing a Death Eater's patience after yesterday," he drawled. This time, Ysbail's eyes went wide.

"Don't you dare threaten me, boy, I-" she started, but Iorath interrupted her, smirking.

"Why, mother. It's not a threat, just an observation. You know me better than that, I hope? I would never threaten my dear mother over such a trivial matter. That said, I doubt my new organization would appreciate an old woman giving lip to one of its members," he drawled. Ysbail's wrinkled face went green for a moment, then she glared at him silently.

"So, mother," Iorath started, still smirking "To what do I owe your presence this time?"

Ysbail's gaze was even filthier than before for a second, but then she relaxed, the scowl in her face softening. "Your cousins arrived a few minutes ago. We're about to have breakfast," she answered.

Iorath raised an eyebrow. "You wish me to join you in a breakfast? That's all?"

Ysbail snorted. "Of course not, boy. We're to give them the good news. This is a singular event for all of us, and they must be reminded of their own duties as well."

The good news that he had become a cold-blooded murderer and his mother encouraged him without the necessary conviction, thought Iorath drily. He preferred to keep that to himself. As for the duties, he had no doubt what she meant: they were to be married off to a pureblood of higher status or die trying, if Ysbail had her way. A prospect that Mairwen probably found to her liking, but that churned Eiriol's stomach, as far as Iorath knew.

"Well, are you coming or not?" she asked impatiently, tapping her feet.

Iorath looked at his mother directly into her eyes and nodded.

"Of course. We must tell my cousins of the joyous good news," he said with only a hint of irony in his tone. Ysbail reassumed her scowling at her son.

* * *

When entering the living room, Iorath could see his two cousins sitting while they ate their toast and drank their ginger tea. Mairwen noticed his presence and granted him a mocking smile.

"Well, well, cousin! So nice to see you! Here I thought you had disappeared after finishing Hogwarts. My dear aunt told me a bit of your success, though I could scarcely believe it, of course," she began gleefully.

Iorath looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Good morning, Mairwen. I wouldn't have thought you missed me," he answered, his tone nonchalant. Mairwen's smirk deepened.

"Why, of course! How could I not miss my dear, delicate and fickle cousin? A lass needs someone to stare at for a few seconds and suddenly feel better with herself, after all," she continued, laughter ringing in her voice. Eiriol, meanwhile, kept drinking her ginger tea, apparently ignoring Iorath.

Mairwen had always been more like his mother, though most of the time she tried to be subtler than her. A pretty young woman of brown hair and blue eyes with an angular face and a dimpled smile that she knew how to use, Mairwen had her share of suitors back when they were at Hogwarts. Few, if any, were of Slytherin however. Her surname weighed heavily in her web of contacts. Furthermore, unlike her sister, she did not have quite the talent as a witch. Iorath remembered her batting her eyelashes at the occasional Ravenclaw student in order to have her Charms homework done swiftly.

Eiriol, meanwhile, was not nearly as pretty. Her hair was held in a dishevelled bun, her cheeks pockmarked and her blue eyes were often rounded by bags even heavier than Iorath's. He knew a few of her teeth were missing (in happier times, Eiriol would jokingly say "Thank god for letting me keep the front teeth!"). Her black hair was starting to grey already. Still, Iorath remembered her for being one of his steadfast friends and the only truly likeable member of the family, as well as a talented potioneer.

Mairwen seemed to notice Iorath's attention going elsewhere. Her mocking, dimpled smile was starting to become a sneer. "Already lost in your thoughts, dear cousin? Do try to forget the Flint boy. He already did that for you," she purred, venom dripping from every word. Ysbail, quiet for the time being, smirked at the comment without saying anything.

Iorath tried not to scowl and remind civil to his younger cousin, though mentally he was already thinking of how resistant to hexes she could be. "Merely admiring your beauty, cousin. You've grown into a quite lovely lady yourself," he said carefully, trying to conceal any sign of sarcasm or annoyance.

The brown-haired woman scoffed. "Didn't think you could notice that in us women, Iorath. Well, there's a first time for everything, I guess. Don't you agree, Eiriol?" she asked to the older cousin.

Eiriol did not reply at an instant. She sipped her tea, apparently unconcerned with the whole exchange. Mairwen hissed in annoyance at her older sister's lack of reply, to which Eiriol directed her eyes at her.

"Certainly, sister. There are first times for everything in this life. You could try a first time at working instead of leaving me deal with the shop," she said drily, her face with a bored expression.

Mairwen's sneer was directed at her sister this time. "Well, what can I say, dear sister. You're the one best fit for manual labour out of us. You should be happy you're useful at something," she said with her infuriating sing-song voice.

Eiriol remained stoic as she sipped her tea. "If I should be happy for that, Mairwen, then you must be most miserable. My condolences for your plight," she replied to her younger sister, her voice as dry as before. To this, Mairwen actually scowled. Ysbail raised her eyebrow at her older niece, while Iorath smirked.

"You disgusting, ugly, unappealing piece of-"

"Sister, don't make a scene here, will you? Mocking my appearance shows a distinct lack of creativity. While I doubt you could come up with something better, I try to never lose hope with my sister," her voice went slightly higher, imitating the sing-song tone Mairwen used to heckle others.

Mairwen did not back down at her sister's retaliation and continued "How dare you? If it weren't for me and MY efforts, we would be thrash selling potions at a lowly shop, you pockmarked bitch!"

The older sister gave a last sip of her tea and then looked directly at Mairwen, this time smiling. Some of the teeth at the back remained missing, Iorath noticed. She did not seem to care to fix that issue at all. "As I said, sister, I ask that you don't make a scene here. If you so desire, I can test a few new curses on you later. Unlike you, I happen to be very creative in that area."

Mairwen snarled at her, but did not reply. Eiriol kept smiling innocently at her younger sister.

"I thought as much. Now, dear sister, mind your manners and greet our family as it was expected," she then looked at Ysbail and Iorath, "Good morning, Aunt Ysbail, cousin. I apologize on behalf of my young, impressionable and impertinent sister."

Iorath smiled at her and greeted her back. Ysbail, meanwhile, acted as if she had not heard anything. Eiriol then resumed drinking her ginger tea, appearing focused solely on it. Mairwen was fuming, something that brought Iorath a degree of joy.

Ysbail then spoke, annoyed at Iorath's smirk and Eiriol's calm irony. "I have news for both of you, ladies. We're no longer to be laughed at by other purebloods or mudblood and half-blood upstarts," she paused for a short moment, then continued, looking at Iorath with her face unreadable, "My son has carried out his duty to the Dark Lord, and will continue to do so."

Eiriol frowned, while Mairwen resumed her smirk.

"Oh, dear aunt. Surely you don't expect us to believe that... _Iorath_... of all people, managed to appeal to the Dark Lord?"

Ysbail scowled at her younger niece. "Watch your place, slag." Mairwen's smirk was accentuated by her staring down on the older woman.

"Sorry, dear aunt, I'm merely stating the obvious, surely you cannot expect that the failure of a wizard that my cousin is managed to-"

Iorath pulled up his sleeve, showing the intricate, black drawing of the Dark Mark his inner left forearm. Mairwen's smirk faded, her mouth gaping slightly, while Eiriol's eyes narrowed. Ysbail seemed please with the whole situation.

"Well, well. Finally we get some peace. One harpy has been quieted down," she mocked her humbled niece. "Now we are to reap the benefits of this new association, and Iorath shall represent our family among the Dark Lord's followers."

The blond wizard grimaced at the prospect. He knew that he had to do it, and that there was no going back, but to be used as a bridge to power by his own mother was something he did not relish it. Eiriol seemed to take notice of his unease.

"Did he do it willingly, aunt?" she asked, staring directly at Ysbail. The older woman snorted.

"Of course, you daft cow. Iorath did everything he was asked this last months, and he has finished the harsher tests. What? You too doubt the Dark Lord's judgement?" she growled.

Eiriol's frown did not disappear. "I do not doubt the Dark Lord's judgement. I doubt yours and Iorath's. Getting into this conflict makes us targets. I don't think it wise to waste our time with killing mudbloods and blood-traitors," she replied.

Ysbail sneered at her. "Well, of course _you'd_ rather hide in your potions shop and remain wallowing among the dirt."

Iorath's older cousin returned the sneer. "I happen to have a sense of self-preservation, rather than dying for catering to some extremist's interests, aunt. And if you're so concerned with the Death Eater's cause, why not sign up yourself? _You_ surely don't prefer to hide, don't you?" her voice was icy.

Ysbail's eyes narrowed at her, and Iorath could see she was reaching for her wand. She stopped and then she answered, her voice lower than usual. "If they asked me to be part of their ranks, you revolting minger, I would do so gladly. They haven't. They sought Iorath because of his youth and skill. If any of you wenches had any skill beyond brewing second-rate potions and opening your legs, perhaps you would have been graced with that privilege yourselves. You haven't."

Both Mairwen and Eiriol were glaring at their aunt. Eiriol herself had her hand on the left side of her hip, where her wand hanged. Iorath decided that this was not the moment for a quarrel between his mother and his cousins.

"Infighting among what remains of our family is pointless, so I ask that you refrain from going for each other's throats," he then looked at his mother for a moment, and then spoke to his cousins, "I am a Death Eater now, and I will redeem the name of our family."

Ysbail's face was smirking again. Mairwen's eyes were slightly widened, but she was not nearly as shocked as she appeared before. Eiriol, however, looked stricken for a second. She quickly sat down and resumed drinking her ginger tea.

Iorath then spoke. "Mother did not summon you just to brag about this. She is concerned about both of you and is thinking on how this new situation can help you."

Mairwen's eyebrows faded in her fringe. Eiriol was trying to conceal a look of disgust, her nose wrinkling. Ysbail's face was as arrogant as never before.

"You both have failed in your craft. Mairwen hasn't achieved a decent marriage, and Eiriol barely survives with her shop. Yet both of you are members of the Kneath family, and you will comply," she stated, sounding far too pleased with herself. Eiriol was glaring daggers at her, while Mairwen made a sound of disgust. Ysbail ignored them and went on.

"Today we are having visitors aside from you. This place is no longer safe, and we will receive instructions. You all may be targets now."

Eiriol actually snarled at her. It was unlike her to lose her temper, despite all the teasing she suffered among Slytherin girls and those of the other houses regarding her appearance. Iorath noticed her irate look was something he did not want to face very often.

" _We're_ targets of the mudblood lovers, now?! What on Earth were you both thinking?! Why not telling us any of this beforehand?!" she shrieked.

Ysbail scowled at her and yelled back "You'll speak when I tell you, imbecilic girl! We all have choices made for us, and you're no exception. You better remember that, since the last time there was an idea of independence on your branch's part, it ended poorly." Eiriol went silent, but her face remained wrenched in anger. Mairwen was now looking very interested at one of the serpentine stone ornaments on the wall. Iorath noticed she was, for once, not smirking or annoyed but rather troubled.

His mother, however, took that as an opportunity to continue her diatribe. "As I said, today we're having visitors. And you're making yourselves useful, wenches. You'll be in charge of the reception. Begin cooking and preparing our house immediately. Do not laze around!"

Eiriol was nearly biting her lip not to spit at his mother, while Mairwen decided to stop staring at the wall ornament and asked at her with a clipped voice "And who, pray tell, are this honourable visitors? I'm not going to fill my hands with your house's dirt for any imbecile, dear aunt!" Ysbail's smirk returned.

"Tristam Nott and our long-time advocate Andrian Selwyn," Eiriol made a noise of disgust at the last name, "You'll behave when they're here, stupid girl. As I said, they're not just members of renowned families but also part of the Inner Circle of the Dark Lord. They're here to instruct us how to act if we are to support him."

Mairwen was pensive for a minute, and then spoke. "Alright, dear aunt!" Eiriol and I shall take care of the preparations, effective immediately" she said cheerfully.

Eiriol stared at her in disbelief. "Surely you jest. I will not play servant to Death Eaters, lest of all Selwyn!" she hissed. Mairwen directed a dimpled smile at her sister.

"You just need to play along, Eiriol dearest. We have few options, after all. Better to do it gladly rather than sullen, as it is your habit," her sing-song voice was back again. Iorath sneered in disgust at his younger cousin. Her mocking smile did not falter.

Ysbail, however, was approving. "At least the slag knows her place, unlike you, Eiriol. Prepare the meal, while Mairwen does the cleaning with me."

The older sister did not reply, but went to the kitchen swiftly, not minding anyone in her path and pushing Iorath away. Mairwen flashed another dimpled smile.

"At once, auntie dearest."

They had finished the preparations for the meal. Some steak, elf-wine that Eiriol had managed to earn in exchange of one of her potions and mashed potatoes were to be served when Nott and Selwyn arrived. The main table was arranged as well as possible, regarding the fact that they lived in a far too humble household. It was reasonably clean by the time Ysbail and Mairwen were finished with it. Eiriol was taking her time with the meal, and Iorath offered to help her, but his mother stopped him.

"It's her place as a woman. Let her do it. You're a _man_ and a Death Eater. Act like both," she said.

Iorath stared at her for a few seconds and then nodded, scowling.

By the time they were finished, a buzzing sound was heard from the corridor that lead to the basement they lived in. "They're here!" Ysbail exclaimed. The older woman went for the door and opened it.

Nott and Selwyn were not in their Death Eater robes today. Selwyn was as always handsome, with a strong jaw, pale blond hair and blue eyes. He was also, as always, sneering in contempt to his surroundings, his eyes glinting in anger. Tristam Nott, meanwhile, was a man in his early fifties, his hair and short beard already grey. He was a stooped man, which was now evident without the robes. When he smiled in courtesy to Ysbail, he revealed yellowing teeth.

"Thanks for this reception, Ysbail, it was unnecessary," he said smoothly. Iorath knew better than to trust a man like Nott, but he had to admit that, in comparison to Selwyn (who had brushed Mairwen aside rudely when she greeted him), he had some manners.

Selwyn sat and asked for some wine, not looking at anyone. Mairwen flashed one of her smiles at him and said "Of course, Master Selwyn, at once."

But she first directed her gaze towards Nott and asked, her voice sickeningly sweet to Iorath's ears: "Would you have some wine as well, Master Nott? I may as well bring to glasses rather than one. Apparating sometimes leaves one breathless, after all."

Nott inspected Mairwen for a few seconds, then returned a smile to her, showing once again his yellowing teeth. "It would be most kind of you, dear. May I know your name?"

Mairwen's dimples were even more evident as she replied, "Mairwen Kneath. Not really someone remarkable, Master Nott. I'm just Iorath's cousin."

Nott raised an eyebrow. "Ï knew he had two cousins, but he didn't mention much beyond that. Certainly not how lovely they were," he said appraisingly.

Mairwen blushed slightly, though her smile did not abandon her face. "You are a flatterer, Master Nott. I'm really not anyone special."

The older man shook his head. "Iorath proved himself an efficient agent of our organization more than once. You are part of a family on their way to redemption after the… unfortunate events of their bloodline. Thus, you have your role to play as well."

Mairwen nodded in agreement. "I know Iorath since I was a child, Master Nott. A most capable wizard, and a convinced fighter for blood purity," she spoke, her voice already far too flattering. Iorath tried not to retch in disgust. His younger cousin's two-faced behaviour was not something new; he had seen her playing her games back at Hogwarts. But seeing her do it now, immediately after showing her derision for him, was a bit too much to bear. He was almost thankful when Selwyn interrupted them.

"Stop your arse-licking, wench, and bring the wine already," he spat. Mairwen turned around and bowed her head.

"Of course, Master Selwyn. I apologize," and went to the kitchen.

Nott then sat and invited Iorath to do so as well. "Your cousin is an example of a pureblood woman, Kneath," he said, his aristocratic tone filled with praise. Iorath's stomach churned; he could not believe that Nott, of all people, would fall into Mairwen's petty seduction games. While his cousin was attractive, he could not fathom how men did not see her for what she was: a manipulative, opportunistic slag. Possibly one of the things he and his mother would agree on.

Still, he managed to force a polite smile and nod "She is a good woman. Always willing to aid and serve, and her blood is indeed pure."

This time, Selwyn spoke, "Isn't she one of Ysbail's Squib brother's little spawns? One of the many cursed within your wretched family. To call that blood purity…" he snorted in disgust.

Ysbail was about to speak, but Iorath stopped her with a glare, silently reminding her of the many times she had already spoken out of term in Selwyn's presence. Thankfully, the old hag had some ounce of common sense and clamped her mouth shut.

Nott was the one to answer to Selwyn, rather than either member of the Kneath family. "They are not at fault for their Squib parents, Selwyn. That is a doing of the magic-thieving mudbloods. As for Ysbail's brother and his… mistakes… well. Ysbail already helped correct them," he said as he sipped his elf-wine. Selwyn had already finished his glass and bellowed to the kitchen asking for another. Mairwen came swiftly and complied with her infuriating smile, filling his glass.

Ysbail's eyes were suddenly directed at the floor. Iorath knew that his mother, despite her abusive behaviour, regretted many things. One of them was warning the more extremist part of pureblood society of the Squib marches and their participants. One of them was her brother Bryn, from whom Ysbail had received the information. She thought that they would be making a counter-march and little else. Instead, agressors broke the movilzation and murdered several Squibs, her brother and sister-in-law among them.

Eiriol never forgave Ysbail for that, while Mairwen tried to make as if the whole incident had not happened, but directed her bitterness to Iorath.

"One of the few good things that crone did well. Filthy upstarts," grunted Selwyn. He had already drunk half his second glass of wine.

"Ysbail did much for our society, Selwyn. The information she gave us on the new Squib marches was one thing. You ought to recognise that," Nott said, and nodded towards the distraught Ysbail. Her eyes seemed watery, and she granted a sycophantic smile and nodded back, then looked once again at her feet.

"Do sit and join us, ma'am. There's no need to remain standing while we men sit and drink," he invited Ysbail (in her own house, thought Iorath silently). She nodded thankfully and sat.

Then floating forks, knives and dishes with roasted steak and mashed potatoes came to the living room and found themselves neatly on the living room. Eiriol entered as well, with her wand making the necessary movements to serve the food.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Enjoy your meal," she said simply. Iorath noticed her stance was tense. Mairwen came quickly behind her and beamed at the visitors.

"My sister Eiriol is a wonderful cook, even if the dish is a bit simple for you, good sirs," she quipped.

Selwyn snarled at both young women. "You do well in thinking so, wench. I hope at least your sister made herself useful for something. I've tried to marry her off to some lesser pureblood family and had no success so far. Clearly her duty of bringing children to the world is not happening any time soon," he remarked with contempt. Eiriol's face was stony, but she kept herself from expressing whatever she was thinking.

"Well, my sister is a bit of a handful, that's for sure. Still, she's an excellent cook and an even better potion-maker," Mairwen interjected.

Selwyn was probably going to holler about how Mairwen was speaking out of place, when Nott opportunely interrupted. "The food does look delicious, and the elf-wine is of decent quality. You've made your efforts despite your humble status, young ladies. Please, sit with us."

Mairwen kept her fake, sycophantic smile, her blue eyes looking directly at Nott, who smiled in return. Eiriol sat without saying anything, preferring to focus on her food.

Selwyn then spoke to Iorath "You're aware that you can't remain in this pigsty for another day, aren't you? The Aurors are searching for their missing mudblood."

Iorath nodded sternly. "Yes, Master Selwyn. I'm aware of that. I haven't had the time to look for another hideout for my mother and I yet, but I will do so."

Nott raised his hand to speak. "There's no need for that, young man. We have already made the necessary arrangements before your initiation. A house owned by elderly muggles has been vacated a few months ago and we have managed to obtain it."

Iorath frowned. "Having the house of slain muggles will only raise suspicions, Master Nott."

The older Death Eater chortled. "These filthy creatures died of natural causes long ago, Kneath. We're not so daft as to go for marked houses to hide."

Selwyn scoffed "It would have been nice if we had any hand in those animal's demise, though. It's been a while since I've done some actual muggle hunting."

Iorath wondered if this sort of conversation was the closest Selwyn would have as small talk. It was the first time he had not harassed verbally any of the present. That thought was not comforting at all.

"The house is close to West Rhyl's beach. All of you, including your cousins shall move there after we finish our dinner. Consider it a reward of our organization, as well as a loan of sorts", Nott's eyes narrowed, "we expect further services from you all, after all."

Ysbail nodded thankfully in silence, granting both of them a smile. Nott nodded back politely, while Selwyn sneered.

"It is most kind of you, sirs. We shall do whatever you need. Should we find any way to aid Iorath in his endeavours we shall do so," interjected Mairwen. Selwyn was already prepared to attempt to yell at her, yet once again Nott stopped him by speaking.

"You are most kind, dear Mairwen. I'm certain your cousin will be an asset, and your whole family will be rewarded for it in our new order."

"Your words are too kind, Master Nott. I hope both of you can come and visit us with your wives. We would be happy to arrange another meal in celebration for the Dark Lord's coming victory," she said brightly.

Nott coughed a little, while Selwyn's snarl was even more savage than before, the disgust in his face being evident to even the dumbest of minds. Iorath thought he would make a rather poor spy. Probably his talents as a Death Eater lied elsewhere. More than likely, brute force, if the number of times he punched Iorath for mistakes or just to relieve some stress served as indication.

"I'm afraid I'm not currently married. I had to terminate my arrangement with Mrs. Fawley once it was proven she was barren. Alas," he confessed. Iorath noticed his eyes locked with Mairwen's. The young woman's gaze was akin to that of an eagle who had seen mice.

Iorath was doing a great effort to stop the bile from filling his throat. He threw a glance at Eiriol. She clearly was not impressed with Mairwen's antics either or with anything that had transpired in this lunch so far, if her visible scowl was any hint.

Selwyn, meanwhile, went for what could possibly be his sixth glass of wine when he spoke. "Ï wouldn't bring my fiancée to eat along with cattle like yourself, wench. This… bond our families share is an obligation from my parents and little else. When we have to socialize, we have better company."

Mairwen's beaming face was doing its best not to falter, but it did not take Legilimancy to realise that even she was beginning to be tired of Selwyn's contemptuous behaviour. Still, she smiled and did not reply.

When they finished their meals, Eiriol took her wand hanging from her hip and flourished it, so that the forks, dishes and knives went to the kitchen. She then walked towards there herself, giving the briefest of nods to the people still seating and began cleaning.

"Your sister does not seem too pleased to have us here, dear Mairwen" noticed Nott. Mairwen scoffed dismissively.

"She's really just tired. She and I have to take care of the potions shop, and she allows the work to stress her far too much," she replied, maintaining that smile that by now reminded Iorath of one of the mentally-addled muggle children in Rhyl. Nott had other impression, however. He seemed to almost leer at Mairwen.

"Ï take it that you don't stress too much over it?" asked the older man. Iorath had to bite his tongue at that; mentioning that his younger cousin would not lift a finger to help Eiriol on the basis that it would ruin her nails would not do favours to the girl's pureblood hunting.

"I do my share, but Eiriol is such a working woman. She lets it consume her, I'm afraid," she answered. Nott smiled at her yet refrained from saying anything further.

By the time Eiriol came ack to the living room, guests and hosts alike were standing, their wands out of their robes.

"Let us get this over with. We're taking you to your new home. Thank the Dark Lord for his generosity. You are barely worthy of it," grunted Selwyn.

Ysbail nodded silently at Selwyn and Nott, her smile as sycophantic as she could manage. Between Mairwen and his mother, Iorath would die of shame.

Eiriol started removing the decorations and the bookcase on the wall, levitating them. She put a few of them in Mairwen, Iorath and Ysbail's hands, while she took hold of the bookshelf and nodded at the two older Death Eaters.

"We're ready, gentlemen," she said nonchalantly.

Nott then instructed everyone to grab one another and began Apparating.

The sensation of being torn apart was something Iorath would not get used to when he Apparated. It was something far too overwhelming for a person's senses. Remembering Ainsley being literally torn apart by the forced Splinching did not help at all.

Still, no such accident happened. They arrived at a structure that, while still rather ruined, was larger than the basement they lived in. It was probably one of the houses near the beach that were sustained by the muggle's social household programs. Iorath remembered practicing hexes upon several drug-addicts who occupied some of those houses illegally. This structure shared the problem of humidity rotting away the walls, but its ceiling was better kept, and it had a chimney, which could come in handy, even if the Floo Network was being watched by the Ministry. While exploring it, Iorath noticed it had three dormitories. At the very least, he would not have to share the room with one of his cousins, he thought drily.

"This is the Dark Lord's gift to you, Kneath family. Try not to squander it," said Selwyn sourly. Mairwen and Ysbail nodded gratefully at him, while Eiriol decided to occupy herself with putting the decorations and bookshelf on the new living room's walls.

"Iorath will be able to Apparate here as a haven if needed, and it shall be also yours to live in during the conflict with the Ministry and those mudblood lovers of the Order of the Phoenix," explained Nott.

"Now, we must discuss Iorath's new mission, which shall begin shortly," he continued. Iorath's tired eyes widened slightly.

"Already, Master Nott?" he asked. The older man raised an eyebrow towards him.

"Surely you're not to be ungrateful with our organization after the gift you've been granted," he drawled.

Iorath quickly shook his head. "Of course not, Master Nott. It's simply that it's been such a short time, and I haven't had my respite," he replied. Selywin rolled his eyes and sneered, but was thankfully silent.

Nott, meanwhile, was uncaring for his complaint. Iorath then realised that it was better not to abuse of his good will towards him, if there was any. He needed a relatively reliable ally within the Death Eaters if he was to survive, and Selwyn's unwilling patronage for the Kneath family was not something he could count on.

Seeing that Iorath resigned to his incoming task, Nott continued. "The half-blooded mongrel of an Auror you managed to bring to us is trying to triangle the location of several purebloods and blood traitors. We must pursue and force them into either collaboration or death. You will go to London to make sure he finishes it. What's more, one of the targets, a man named Solomon Shafiq, is of extreme priority. You and our new Auror informant are to locate and hunt down that man. If he refuses to join our order, then he must be swiftly executed"

Iorath nodded. "I will begin our mission tomorrow. Where must I meet our informant?"

This time, Selwyn replied. "The mongrel will be on a Collier and Calshot streets corner. You will then begin giving chase to the blood traitors and those purebloods who have not yet understood the importance of our cause. You'll also have to watch over that half-blood," he then smirked, "though I doubt he would try anything. I already am watching over his loving wife. Should he do anything funny, tell me and I'll gut that animal and send him the remains."

Eiriol wrinkled her nose in disgust, while Mairwen shuddered slightly. Iorath was used to the man's sociopathic tendencies, but he guessed that his cousins were not as accustomed to them.

Nott, pleased with having given the instructions, nodded at the Kneath family. "Thank you for the meal and the elf-wine. It was delicious," he said gracefully, and then looked at Mairwen "I hope to see you again soon."

Mairwen granted him that dimpled smile that Iorath despised.

"Let us get out of this forsaken place now, Nott. I can barely stand the stench of Rhyl any longer," spat Selwyn.

" _Dos i chwarae efo dy nain_ ," muttered Eiriol under her breath.

"What did you just say, wench?" growled Selwyn.

Eiriol's expression feigned innocence. "A common phrase here in Wales to express good luck on someone's endeavours, Master Selwyn. Something of us who live in the sticks," she said silkily. Selwyn was not all too convinced, but luckily decided not to push the issue.

"We're off then. Do you duty to the Dark Lord, Iorath," said Nott, as he held Selwyn and Dissapparated.

There were a few seconds of silence, before Mairwen's silly sing-song voice broke it. "Such wonderful individuals, these Death Eaters. Truly impressive chaps. The Selwyn fellow was a bit sour, but that Nott man was charming. Truly the epitome of pureblood society," she chirped.

Eiriol snarled at her sister. "They're not people you should mingle with, Mairwen. These men are making us walking targets for the Ministry." She then glared at Iorath "You as well. What were you and aunt Ysbail thinking by consorting with these madmen?"

"Don't speak as if I was not here, smart-mouthed bitch," grunted Ysbail. "These are members of the Sacred Twenty Eight. Tristam Nott is Cantankerus Nott's son. If we manage to forge a strong alliance with them and the Dark Lord, we will have the place that we were denied long ago."

"But to make Iorath a Death Eater? Are you aware of the danger you're putting him in?" Eiriol then looked at Iorath in the eyes, her blue gaze icy. "Do you know what you're getting yourself into, cousin? Nothing good can come from these sorts. You saw what Mulciber, Avery and his gang were capable of."

Iorath's lips formed a thin line, his expression unreadable, then he answered. "Your worries are misplaced, Eiriol. I've already done a few things that the Death Eaters are known for and I'm still here, neither dead nor rotting in Askaban," he began.

"The Dark Lord is growing stronger. Both him personally and his influence over Britain. Soon we will bring a new order over these islands, and the Dark Lord will be unstoppable. Those who have aided him will be rewarded beyond measure."

Eiriol looked at him as if she did not know him. "You're not being serious, are you? This is a gamble only a drooling fool would undertake."

Ysbail was ready to yell at her, but Eiriol's icy glare and quick grasp of her wand was enough to intimidate the older woman. Eiriol's hatred for her aunt was something too easy to come to the surface.

Trying to defuse this situation and to stop Eiriol from going any further in her wrath, Iorath put himself between her and Ysbail. "This is the only way we can improve ourselves. My mother is right about that, and you know it. How can you deny that this is a unique opportunity to finally improve ourselves?"

"By throwing our lot with a bunch of sociopaths, you mean? Please, Iorath. You're a clever man. Do realise that this is madness!"

Iorath looked at her, his eyes almost sad. Once again, he lifted his sleeve and revealed the Dark Mark to her. Eiriol stopped glaring and looked at the mark for a minute. Then, she looked at Iorath in the eyes and shook her head in resignation.

"You can't possibly believe this was a wise thing to do," she spat.

"Do you think there's going back now, Eiriol?"

She looked at him with a mix of anger and pity, then threw her hands in resignation and sat. "Do as you want," she said, "but you'll end up killing yourself and risking us all."

Iorath tried to reply but decided not to. He then wished good night to the three women. Ysbail also left the living room, not bothering to greet anyone but giving Eiriol a suspicious glare. The pockmarked young woman snarled at her in turn, once again going for her wand. Ysbail knew better than to tempt a quarrel here, and swiftly left.

"I, for one, think he did the right thing this once," he heard Mairwen say as he left.

"Only because you are used to rely on someone else's talents to live the day," this time, it was Eiriol's scathing voice answering her sister. "I prefer to survive by my own skills and commit my own mistakes, rather than putting my life on someone else's hands."

Iorath scowled. The joyous good news had been delivered, and he felt even worse than before. Having Eiriol against him was something he was not used to. She was someone who had always defended him, and to see her disapprove so sternly was hard to swallow. He could only imagine what she would think if she knew what he had done to be accepted within the Death Eaters.

Still, he knew it had to be done. There was no other way, and if there was, he could not go back now.

As he lied upon his new dusty bed and tried to sleep, he realised that what he told himself was still little comfort, as the agonizing images of Darren and Ainsley filled his intermittent sleep once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, reviews are welcome and hoped for, especially to know what works or does not work for whoever is reading this (for the time being, no one :p). Particularly, the misuse of the English language is something I'm most concerned about, so do try to warn me, since I'm lacking beta readers of any kind.


	4. Of Pursuits and Futility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorath Kneath summons Liam Davis to continue the pursuit of purebloods who have not joined the ranks of the Death Eaters yet. Things do not work out quite as Iorath expected them to.

### Of Pursuits and Futility

Iorath found the freckled, auburn haired Auror in the Collier and Calshot crossroad, dressed in muggle clothing. Iorath had chosen his usual dirty muggle dressing as well. The Auror informant was next to a red building made out of bricks. Muggle functional architecture, thought Iorath.

When Liam Davis noticed Iorath, the hint of a scowl touched his face. Iorath could not truly blame him; he was blackmailed into aiding the Death Eaters. All the same, if there was something he had learnt as a Slytherin and a member of the Kneath family is that he could not spend regret or pity on those who were to be means to an end. He raised his eyebrow towards the hostile Auror.

“I take it you aren’t used to your new role, Davis?” he asked, his voice smooth.

“How perceptive, Kneath,” hissed Davis, his scowl now quite visible in his freckled face. Not the best expression for someone with so many spots in his face, thought Iorath with a degree of irony.

“Well, I hope you manage to get used to the idea that you have new masters. It is easier that way,” he said nonchalantly. He was partly speaking from experience, he thought.

Davis, however, was not appreciative for Iorath’s words. “You may be fond of bending over to sadists, Kneath, but if I do anything for you madmen it’s because I’ve no choice,” he said, snarling.

Iorath merely raised an eyebrow towards him and replied calmly “Then if you’re aware that you have no choice, why not try to change that sour face?”

The Auror informant’s freckled face reddened in anger, his chest heaving as he breathed. “Your _friends_ threaten me and my wife. You’ve helped _tear Ainsley apart in front of me_. You force me to sell you the names of people so you can either _murder_ them or use them to your _insane plans_ , and you ask me to _change my sour face?_ Piss off, Kneath!”

Iorath’s jaw tightened at the mention of Ainsley, but he would not give Davis the pleasure of knowing he had found a weakness. The mongrel had to be put in his place. “Good for you to remember that your animal of a wife is under watch. Should you speak to me in that tone, I shall tell Selwyn that you’re not reliable and she shall join your Auror friend.”

Davis’ eyes flared, wrath evident. “Never call my wife an animal again, Kneath,” he hissed.

The blond, gaunt wizard sneered. “Isn’t she a muggle?” he asked with false innocence. Davis, in other conditions, would have already hexed him. However, he summoned all his will to retain his cool and returned the sneer.

“Do you think your _friends_ think any better of you, now that you’re a murderer as them, Kneath? You’re still viewed as thrash not worthy a Knut, and a deviant at that. Why do you keep serving them?”

The sneer in Iorath’s face fainted a little, and a sigh replaced the expression of derision. A part of Iorath knew that Davis was right. Another part found the Auror’s aggressiveness something logical. He was, after all, being blackmailed into serving an organization he despised and forced to betray the Ministry he so lovingly worked for.

However, Iorath Kneath was now a Death Eater. He could not allow mercy to get in the way of duty.

The welsh wizard looked at Davis and said, “Are you aware that what we’re doing is also for your sake, Auror?”

To this, Davis snorted. “Threatening to kill my girlfriend and my infant child is for my sake now, is it? Killing and torturing those _not pure_ is for my sake? Don’t make me laugh, Kneath.”

Iorath shook his head, trying to appear condescending. In truth, he had to admit that the man had a point: half-bloods were not to be looked upon favourably by the new order that was to come. While there were half-bloods among Death Eaters (he himself could be viewed by certain pureblood circles as a half-blood due to the large amount of Squibs in the Kneath line), they were destined to be lower echelons of society.

Still, while he could see that Davis was probably in the right regarding his lack of enthusiasm for the cause he was now _encouraged_ to serve, Iorath needed him to be cooperative. Particularly if they were to look for those who had still not pledged their allegiance to the Dark Lord and the information was to be carried with him.

“I will do my best to ensure that your woman does not come to harm,” the tawny-blond man said finally. Davis’ brown eyes narrowed, looking carefully at Iorath.

“You expect me to believe that, Kneath? If I’m to believe the display of the other night, you’re barely into the Death Eaters. How come you can influence them not to hurt Becca when you’re viewed as an initiate at best, and scum at worst?” he asked harshly. Still, Iorath could see something shine in the Auror’s common brown eyes. He was being pacified.

“The Dark Lord said so himself. Your woman carries a child with magical blood. Even if the child’s a half-blood, they will fit into the society we aim to build. And that means keeping your woman alive,” he explained simply.

Davis squinted at him, not entirely convinced. “So once she gives birth, she’ll be discarded as an ill animal by your friends, Kneath?”

To this, Iorath replied dismissively, “I doubt even Selwyn would kill the muggle woman out of contempt just for being a muggle, while being the mother of a magical child. At the very worst, you’d have to hide her.”

Davis snorted, “Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath for the triumph of your cause.”

Iorath offered him a condescending smile; this time, the sentiment was genuine. “That’s rather sad, Davis, given that the only way your family may survive is by the triumph of our cause, and your cooperation with it,” he said softly.

The Auror glared at him for a moment, but then his expression became lost. He stared at something in the distance, as if trying to abstain from continuing with the exchange.

“You-Know-Who would do treat Becca and Tracey the same way he did with Ainsley, right?” he finally asked. His gaze was still decidedly focused on anyone but Iorath. The blond wizard felt once again a slight sympathy for his unwilling associate.

“You’ve chosen a name for the child already, Davis?”

Without staring at Iorath, the Auror nodded.

The novice Death Eater’s lips went thin, forming a line. He then spoke, his tenor voice clear “If you collaborate, I will speak with Master Nott about this. He is more reasonable with these matters, at least more so than Master Selwyn.”

Davis then slowly turned to face his new associate. He then silently nodded and handed him a scroll. Iorath raised one of his eyebrows and then nodded back.

“Those would be the names and some of the addresses, right?”

The Auror’s face was stony as he nodded. It clearly did not please him at all to hand Ministry security information to a Death Eater. But he complied, which was more than what Iorath would have expected.

Clearly, that popular muggle saying is right: better to be feared than be loved, he thought drily.

Iorath began reading the scroll, then pursed his lips. “They match the names that Master Selwyn gave me, that’s for sure. The first we must be on the look-out is Gerard Macmillan.”

Davis’ eyes went wild. “What do you mean, we? I’ve given you the information already. Surely you don’t expect me to aid you in your wizard-hunting!”

The Death Eater rolled his eyes at that. The Auror was once again being annoying and uncooperative, thus unwittingly risking his family. “You shouldn’t worry. I won’t ask you to Cruciate the man if I feel the need to. I must keep you under my watch, is all.”

The Auror informant shook his head. “I cannot aid you in this mad recruiting, Kneath! I’m an Auror. If I witness something like that, I must either report it or be viewed as rogue. Either way, I lose usefulness to you!” he exclaimed.

Iorath smiled in approval. “That’s a rather astute way of thinking, Davis. And a good attempt to save your own skin. Are you sure you were at Gryffindor?” Once again, Iorath had managed to get under the Auror’s skin. The man threw him a filthy look.

The Death Eater raised his hands, “It was a compliment, I asure you. Or rather, it was meant as such,” he said innocently.

“You should practice complimenting a bit more before doing it, Kneath” grunted Davis. Once again, Iorath could not help but smile sardonically at the Auror.

“A touchy fellow if there’s one. Anyway, about your concerns... You know that this is a recruitment mission already, Davis. There’s no need to worry. I don’t intend to leave any witness beyond you,” he said simply, but his eyes were grim. Davis quickly understood, his own eyes widening.

“You intend to murder them as they tell you?” he gasped.

Iorath gave him a wry smile, though his eyes remained severe. “You’re asking me to disobey a reasonable man such as Master Selwyn? Or annoy the Dark Lord himself?”

Davis’ face was pale. “How can you murder someone just because they ask you? No cause is worthy of that, Kneath! Lest of all if they use terror to convince you?”

The smile in the other wizard quickly became a sneer. “It worked for you, didn’t it?” he asked flatly. The Auror scowled, but refrained to continue.

The Death Eater then looked once again at the list, a grimace heightening his gaunt features. “Let us hope Macmillan complies.” He then suddenly grabbed Davis by the shoulder, and the similar feeling of being swiftly torn apart before reforming oneself took over Iorath as both Apparated.

As they reformed into the space, Iorath’s mind went once again to Ainsley’s murder at the hands of the Dark Lord. He could have felt this, but ten times worse, and what followed was the most merciless of agonies.

Once again, the mark of weakness named regret occupied Iorath’s mind.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Gerard Abbott was apparently hidden in a small house in Barking, in the east of London. The street they were on was Number 8, Sunningdale Avenue. The place was not particularly wealthy, though it carried itself better than West Rhyl, at the very least. The muggles had apparently used a standardized housing system, as every house looked nearly about the same, some with the familiar red bricks while others at least held some relative creativity regarding building materials.

The house they were looking for was one of the red-bricked ones, located on number 8, Sunningdale Avenue. It was relatively pretty, thought Liam. For what was worth, British working-class houses of older periods were quite attractive, especially when one was to discover what modern architecture would become. Rebecca and Liam’s own flat were they cohabitated was not as graceful yet sturdy as these constructions were.

Liam’s thoughts drifted towards his girlfriend, his pregnant girlfriend who was expecting him to return in a few days. The Auror knew he had to communicate with her somehow. Or with his mother, so that she would calm Rebecca down while she warned the Ministry of this whole plot and ensuring his girlfriend did not come to harm in any way.

As Kneath inspected the house, Liam analyzed his options. The Welsh Death Eater was not without his degree of mercy, if his words regarding Rebecca and Tracey were to be believed. He did not seem to have lied, at the very least. Perhaps there was a mental opening in Kneath that he could use.

However, the issue of Kneath’s superiors- that old crow Nott and the Selwyn twat- was a different matter. He knew that those were strong in their allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Nott in particular was a long-time ally of Him, if what he had heard in the Auror office was true. And both had a strong leash on Kneath’s neck.

As he considered his options, he stumbled upon Iorath. The gaunt blond wizard frowned at him.

“Something’s the matter, Davis?” he asked. The Auror shook his head.

“Nothing. I was just looking for possible exits from the house. Didn’t find any,” he lied. The novice Death Eater did not seem convinced, but shrugged all the same.

“Should you feel the need to inform me of something, don’t hesitate to do so. You’re under my watch, after all,” he said simply.

Liam nodded. “You found any enchantments on the door, Kneath?”

The Death Eater nodded curtly. “Minor spells such as the Unlocking Charm will not do the trick. Luckily, Abbott did not expect other... less subtle methods,” he said, smirking.

“Like which, exactly?” asked Liam.

The smirk in Kneath’s face grew into a grin, showing a few missing upper teeth. “Like this,” he answered, and kicked the door open. The sound was loud enough to alert anyone inside it. Liam was about to object at the lack of stealth when Kneath got inside. He then wisely decided to leave complaints for later.

As soon as both of them entered, they found the house to be worse on the inside. The entrance corridor was dirty, rubbish of different sort decorating the floor and the walls stained with humidity. Liam wondered if there was some sort of curse on the Death Eaters that every place they went to was damp and ruined.

They inspected the living room, which was tidier than the corridor. Only a bit of food rotting away on the sink was evidence of the lack of care for the place. Other than that, everything remained in its place. The walls, however, were as ruined as those in the corridor (once again, the curse of dampness upon the Death Eater blighters).

Kneath’s eyes looked carefully at the stairs above, focusing on them. For a moment, Liam thought that Kneath intended him to go up the stairs first, but the Death Eater extended his hand to stop him. Then, he took out his wand and flourished it.

“ _Revelio_ ,” he whispered.

The wooden stairs started fading away slowly. In its place, a large, burly blond man with a pink face stood there, trembling slightly. Still, there was an expression of defiance in that one.

“Gerard Abbott,” Kneath addressed the man, who remained silent.

The Death Eater was pointing his wand at Abbott, who drew his own as well and aimed at Kneath.

“I know why you’re here. You can’t... You wouldn’t...” he managed to stammer.

Kneath rolled his eyes. He was most certainly not impressed with the Abbott fellow. Liam decided not to draw his wand for the time being. This was, after all, not his fight. He was simply being watched by Iorath while he attempted to encourage this man into He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s ranks. Still, he preferred to maintain vigilance in case the man attempted something.

“Please, Abbott. There’s no need for further unpleasantness. I know you’ve hidden your sister and her family rather well, but if you don’t comply now and we find them... Well, your chances are safer with us,” he explained condescendingly, as if speaking to a child.

Gerard Abbott’s face was covered in sweat. Still, he still held his wand high at the Death Eater. Liam wondered whether the man would relent and obey Kneath, or if he was willing to face his death and the possible demise of his whole family. He quickly noticed the similarities between Abbott and himself. They were being forced to make a terrible choice that could mean damnation either way.

Damnation may have already found him by now, thought Liam bitterly.

Kneath, meanwhile, expressed only slight annoyance in his gaunt features. The man sneered as he kept his wand up, the threat implicit. “You know well the Dark Lord is gaining power, even as we speak. He has the capacity to defend you, your brother and his family,” his hazel eyes narrowed as he continued, “And more might that it is required to wipe you all out. Please, consider your fate, good man. You may serve a cause greater than you and live.”

The neck of Abbott’s robe as well as the chest was stained with sweat. The pink-faced man’s eyes bulged. He hesitated for a moment, looking at the floor. A few tears dropped. Liam thought the man had finally surrendered.

Suddenly, Macmillan lifted the wand again “ _Expulso_!” he shrieked.

Kneath and Liam threw themselves into opposite directions in order to avoid the blue blast that began a chain of explosions, destroying much of the living room. Kneath rolled on the floor and then quickly stood up, casting a hex upon Abbott, who narrowly avoided it. Liam, meanwhile, decided to remain on the floor and hide from both men as well as he could. After all, he was to be watched, not to aid Kneath in this murderous endeavour.

Two Stunning Spells went straight to Kneath, who quickly covered himself with the silvery-blue light of a Shield Spell. The red blasts dissipated, making a raucous noise as they clashed with the shield. Then, Kneath exclaimed “ _Levicorpus_ ”; the flash of light hit true. Abbott was hanging magically, holding his wand desperately.

“ _Li-libera_ -“ he began.

Kneath was faster, however. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

The small flash of light made Abbott’s wand fly away, dropping somewhere on the floor. Liam could see the fear in the burly man’s face, sweat now dropping in huge quantities to the floor as he hanged. Kneath approached his target.

“I thought I had convinced you. I trust you have a better perspective on the matter now,” he said drily. Kneath’s wand was pointing at the man’s throat.

Liam tried to shake away his surprise at the turn of events. The Abbott man seemed like a cowardly fellow, but he actually stood his ground against the Death Eater. Even if he was subdued in the end, the Auror had to admit that the man played Kneath well.

Then, an idea crossed his mind. He decided to execute it as soon as it came.

“ _Stupefy_ ,” cried the freckled young man, his wand pointing at Kneath. The Death Eater was thrown against Abbott, and both dropped to the floor, with Kneath on top of the larger man.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” exclaimed Liam, aiming once again at Kneath, and began to lift the fallen wizard. “Quickly, grab me! We’re leaving this place now,” he shouted at Abbott. The man nodded, with his face crimson and his eyes wide as dishes.

Then, a tenor voice was heard as Liam extended his arm towards Abbott.

“ _Crucio_.”

The sensation was something he thought he would never experience. He felt as if his nails were being torn apart one by one, while white-hot knives carved him from inside. His veins seemed to carry boiling water, melting them away. Even the teeth appeared to be grabbed by a pincer and then plucked away. Liam screamed in agony, all his senses violated by the sensation of excruciating pain.

“ _Incarcerous_ ,” said the tenor voice, and ropes tightened around Liam’s body. The Auror knew it was Kneath, but his pain-clouded senses would not help him focus on the Death Eater. A part of him could hear weeping, probably from Abbott, perhaps from himself. The spell was repeated, and this time, the simpering sounds became closer. Liam realized that he was face to face with Abbott.

“It seems the Dark Lord could not fully convince you, Davis,” drawled Kneath. The worst of the pain had subdued by now, but Liam’s body was still heavily affected by the Cruciatus Curse. He could see Abbott’s pink face staring directly at him as Kneath approached to them. The pink-faced man wet with tears and sweat, his face crunched in fear.

Kneath’s wand started aiming at Abbott’s face. Then, it lowered towards the pulsating artery in his throat. “You were a Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, were you not, Abbott?” he asked. Liam could not make the connection between this situation and such a question. Abbott was probably too scared to care about it or to answer.

“I made you a question, Abbott,” hissed Kneath, poking at the artery. The man whimpered and nodded.

“I see. And your brother married a mudblood, did he not?”

Abbott’s sobbing became louder, but he did not reply.

“Answer me now, filth!” exclaimed Kneath. Weeping, Abbott nodded.

“They’re not here. You-you can’t find them, they-“

“We’ll find them and deal with them eventually. You don’t need to worry. I was merely corroborating facts that could have been ignored in other circumstances,” interrupted the Death Eater, his voice cold.

Kneath’s hazel eyes bore upon Liam now. “I think it is time to assure you that there is no other path, Davis. The blood traitor here will serve as an example,” he whispered.

Then, Kneath flourished his wand while pointing at Abbott’s pulsating artery. “ _Diffindo_ ,” he hissed.

A gash was formed from the artery to the rest of the throat, and Abbott gasped and gurgled in front of Liam. Blood quickly began spilling as a waterfall upon Liam’s face, while the agonizing gurgling noises produced by Abbott filled Liam’s ears. Liam could see glimpses of Abbott’s red face losing colour as the blood dropped from the wound, his expression ugly in death. He was something akin to a pig having had his throat slit.

Gerard Abbott’s dead head was suddenly colluding with Liam’s. Kneath had grabbed the corpse’s head from behind and smeared Liam’s own face with blood.

“This is the fate that awaits you and your family if you disobey again. The Cruciatus Curse will look like mercy if you try to pull a stunt like that again. Look well into the blood traitor’s eyes, if you can get past the blood. Look into them! Is that what you want for your woman? For your child?” he asked vehemently as he smeared Liam’s face with Abbott’s.

Liam could barely see anything beyond red, and when he saw anything, he tried to lock his eyes, blood burning into his eyes as he did so. He could not look upon Abbott’s corpse. He could not.

“Is this what you want? Tell me now!” hollered the Death Eater. Liam realized he was shaking, partly from the pain caused by the Cruciatus Curse and partly out of sheer terror.

“Tell me!” repeated Kneath, his wand close to Liam’s own throat.

Liam sobbed once, a single, pathetic sob. He shook his head.

He felt fingers clean the blood from his eyes. He slowly opened them and found Kneath’s hazel gaze.

“Then never attempt to do that again.”

Liam sobbed as he nodded. Whatever he did now, he knew that it was for Becca and Tracey’s sake. He had to ensure that both of them survived this madness and went on with their lives. Whatever plot he helped Kneath and the Death Eaters with was to be done out of love for the family he attempted to build. He could not allow them to end as Abbott ended, as his family could probably end, as Ainsley ended. They had to live. Becca and Tracey had to live.

He also knew that it was not for his own sake. His life was forfeit no matter what now.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

They Apparated back to the Kneath household in West Rhyl. The place, while certainly better than the basement Iorath used to live with Ysbail, was still a sombre place. The house, once a muggle home for an elderly couple who had passed away, seemed to have been abandoned for a long time. Iorath rolled his eyes when he saw the spider-webs at the corners of the different rooms in the house. It was far too stereotypical of a place. He would not be surprised if there were Boggarts lying around.

Davis, the Auror, had not spoken a word after the incident with the Abbott man back at Barking. Iorath could not blame him; he was, after all, tortured by him in the worst way. Still, the man was a resource not to be squandered or destroyed; he could not afford neither betrayal nor death. Losing an informant within the Aurors and the Ministry was something that would infuriate Selwyn and Nott.

It was the second time for Iorath to use the Cruciatus Curse. While he certainly did not master it, the Auror was unprepared for the effects of such a heinous curse. To see his face writhing in agony, enduring an unspeakable torment that Iorath himself caused... No. He could not afford once again the sin of hesitance. Davis was a resource to be used, nothing more, nothing less. If he did not understand his place, he had to be explained in terms he would do so.

His thoughts drifted to the third murder he was involved in. This time, there was no excuse whatsoever that he could summon. He had killed in cold blood, both to tie a loose end and to torture Davis. He was no longer a mere spy for the Death Eaters. He was a Death Eater, with all that it entailed. He was a murderer and a torturer.

“You’re trembling, Kneath,” said the Auror quietly. Iorath threw a filthy look at the freckled man, whose face was stony, and then stared at his hands. Davis was right. Every inch of his body was trembling.

“Nothing to be concerned. Probably some after effect of your Stunning Spell,” he whispered. He did not know who was listening in the house, and to reveal Davis’ attempt at subversion could mean more trouble than what it was worth.

As they walked into the dusty living room, now decorated with the serpentine stone ornaments on the walls and the marred Kneath genealogical tree, they found Tristam Nott and Mairwen. They were sharing a bottle of Firewhisky. Eiriol and Ysbail were nowhere to be seen for now. Ysbail was probably sleeping now, while Eiriol had probably remained at her potions shop.

Nott was, once again, out of his Death Eater robes. His yellow teeth were smiling towards Mairwen, who answered with her dimpled grin as they spoke.

“Cousin! So good of you to join us! How did it go? Did you punish that filthy blood-traitor? Master Nott told me a bit about your task today!” she squealed, giggles barely hidden in her voice.

“I hope not, dear Mairwen. The idea is not to waste those pure of blood by slaughtering them unless it is needed,” interjected Nott. While his tone was disapproving, the older man’s eyes were kind upon the young woman.

Mairwen’s smile faltered a little, but then she took a decided tone, “I understand your point, Master Nott. But surely you must understand that those who doubt our righteous cause deserve some sort of punishment. The Dark Lord and you are struggling for a better world for us witches and wizards! To think that there would be purebloods willing to betray our world...” her pale, smooth face actually flushed a little.

How much was acting and how much was genuine fanaticism was something hard to discern in Mairwen. Sometimes she was a good actress, guessed Iorath.

“I commend your zeal, Mairwen. But a better Wizarding World requires numbers. Not only must we convince the blood-traitors, but also gain the trust or silence of mongrels as well,” his eyes darted for a short moment towards Davis.

Mairwen nodded effusively, but her face remained serious. “I thank you for your compliments, Master Nott. Still, I beg to disagree. Blood-traitors are next to mudbloods in my book. Even if we need them, to view them as something else than tools is beyond my capacities, I’m afraid,” she said, taking a sip of her Firewhisky afterwards. Iorath noticed that Davis was glaring at his cousin. For reasons all too different, he could sympathise with his contempt for the woman.

Nott’s yellow teeth flashed another pleased smile at Mairwen. The young woman tried her best not to overreact, offering a small smile as her blue eyes met his, and continued drinking. Nott then motioned Iorath and Davis to join the table.

“I see you haven’t killed our informant, but I do not see Abbott with you, Kneath,” began the older man as Iorath and Davis sat. The Auror’s movements were stiff.

“I’m afraid he offered resistance, Master Nott. He would not join our ranks,” Iorath excused himself. He was not all that enthused in hearing Nott’s balance on the mission. Indeed, the older man’s lips formed a thin line as he looked at Mairwen.

“It appears your brother has sated your bloodthirst just yet, dear woman,” he drawled. Mairwen’s eyes were slightly wide as she looked at both her cousin and Nott.

“Did you attack him first, Kneath?”

Iorath shook his head, “No, Master Nott. I tried to convince him by threatening his brother’s family, who had married into mudbloods. For a moment, I thought he had given in, then he casted spells against me and Davis.”

Nott raised one grey eyebrow, and looked upon Davis. “Is that so, Auror boy?” he asked.

Davis’ eyes widened, surprised by Nott addressing him. The freckled man opened his mouth a bit, but no word came out.

“Is there something wrong, lad?” Nott’s elderly voice interrogated Davis, annoyed by the lack of communication coming from the Auror. Iorath decided that whatever Davis was trying to say, he would have to keep it for himself.

“He took a Tempest Jinx that was going for me. He is still slightly shocked,” Iorath swiftly stepped on one of Davis’ foot under the table, silencing him. Nott’s annoyed expression changed into one of surprise.

“Did he now? How unexpectedly loyal of you, boy. Perhaps you are starting to see some sense,” he said, stroking his grey beard. Davis was doing everything to remain stoic, but Iorath could notice a degree of disgust at the appraising words in the corners of his mouth.

“The half-blood made himself useful! How droll!” Mairwen cheered, her dimpled smile gaining a decidedly cruel expression as she looked upon Davis.

Nott sighed. “So you couldn’t bring him into the fold, then? He fought that hard?”

Iorath nodded, his eyes narrowed. Then he continued with his explanation, “Abbott fought to kill. Part of the reason we’re covered in dust is due to a Blasting Curse directed at us. We would have been torn apart by the blood-traitor if we hadn’t put an end to him.”

The older Death Eater pursed his lips. “Such a waste of magical blood. But it could not be helped. And at the very least you put that blood-traitor down while keeping the Auror alive. It could have been better, but at least we haven’t lost our key to the other unconvinced purebloods.”

He then looked again at Davis. “You did well, boy. For a half-blood Auror, you’re not so bad,” he said as he took another sip of his glass. Nott hissed slightly; the Firewhisky had probably seared his throat a bit too much.

“Well, one is out already. I hope that you can at least convince someone, Kneath. Pointless spilling of magical blood will do no good to our cause. Next time, do try not to slaughter your recruitment target as a pig,” he stopped slightly to take a sip from his glass and the continued, “Selwyn will be in charge of supervising the next target.”

Iorath’s skin crawled. While Nott was by no means a decent person, he was at least on cordial terms with the rest of humanity that did not deserve the Dark Lord’s wrath. Selwyn, on the other hand, was more akin to the sociopaths and thugs who merely entered into the Death Eater’s ranks for the sake of exercising new forms of brutality. Having him watch over the Kneath household while he sought possible blood-traitors was an idea he did not relish. Reporting to him even less so

“Exactly, Kneath. There’s little to no room for failure now. Your next target will have to enter our ranks. Otherwise, you and your Auror friend would become expendable,” he said calmly. Nott did not need an aggressive tone to threaten someone; stating the obvious truth in such circumstances was enough to send a shiver down Iorath’s spine.

The old Death Eater looked at Mairwen, “I do hope to see you all more often. Even if this first task was not entirely successful, Iorath Kneath is proving to be a useful asset, as well as the informant he gathered. And you, young lady, show a zeal to our cause that is worthy of praise. You are indeed an example of a pureblood woman. Whoever is about to marry you is a lucky man,” he spoke with a polite yet flattering tone.

Mairwen managed to blush. Iorath once again did not know whether she was playing the part of ingénue or if she was truly flattered by the words of a man who doubled her age. Those games of hers were going to drive everyone mad, including herself.

“You’re too kind, Master Nott. However, as dear aunt Ysbail reminds me, there’s no one in my life so far,” she said and sighed. Nott narrowed his eyes.

“Truly? A shame such a lovely lady has not yet found someone to continue a pureblood line. You ought to put more effort perhaps,” he said. His eyes, however, were leering at Mairwen.

“It may be true. It may also be that I haven’t found the proper pureblood gentleman, Master Nott,” she said innocently.

Nott smirked, but said nothing further to Mairwen as the sound of a door opening interrupted the exchange. Angry voices from the corridor could be heard approaching.

“You useless boiler! You were supposed to accept his offer!” Iorath identified the harsh contralto tones of his mother, which were followed by the hissing high voice of Eiriol.

“Sell my shop, all I have left, in exchange for marrying some Parkinson twat? That was your great arrangement, Ysbail? No wonder why we all are still covered in shit!”

“Your shop’s worth nothing, pockmarked bitch! The only thing worthy of you wenches is the ability to produce pureblood children, nothing else!”

Nott rose from his seat. “Well, it seems that my stay here has been far too prolonged. I must take my leave.”

Mairwen seemed peeved by the interruption of her aunt and sister. When they entered the living room, they saw Nott about to abandon the Kneath household.

“Master Nott! Surely we haven’t bothered you? It’s nothing but a minor matter, I assure you!”

Nott gave Ysbail a thin smile and said “Of course not, ma’am. There are pressing matters at hand, and I have overstayed. Your niece Mairwen is an excellent host, by the way.”

Eiriol’s nose wrinkled in disgust when she saw her sister doting that infuriating, flattering smile of hers. Ysbail kept on with her sycophantic rambling, but it appeared to further annoy Nott rather than convince him to stay. The old Death Eater then addressed Iorath and Davis.

“Remember, tomorrow you must go for the second target and report your success to Selwyn. Then we will discuss the next course of action. The half-blood stays here, and you must keep a watchful eye upon him.”

He then directed to Davis specifically “You could also be an asset beyond information, Davis. Perhaps we could take you into our organization eventually, once your usefulness as an informant dies out. We cannot hope to keep the same sleeping agent forever, after all.”

Davis frowned slightly, apparently confused.

“Oh, you shouldn’t worry about your woman, half-blood. As long as you strive to keep the Wizarding World pure, you may have your sins on the side. I know many of us do,” he shot a furtive glance at Iorath and continued, “a little bit of hypocrisy is allowed, if you never miss the greater good as your horizon.”

He then bowed his head slightly towards Ysbail and Eiriol, “Farewell, ladies,” and Apparated away.

Mairwen’s smiling facade dropped, her fair face marred by a snarl. “You two are vociferous banshees who should have never been born! How dare you interrupt me when I’m finally making some progress?!” she shrieked.

Ysbail was about to share a rosary of curses at her niece, when Eiriol interrupted her, her voice mocking “Progress, dear sister? Your Death Eater finally caved in?”

“He was in the process, Eiriol, but you and your failures got in the way. Again!”

Ysbail’s wrinkled face was red. “Shut your trap, whore! If you truly are making progress of any sort, then a mere interruption shouldn’t have made it crumble. And what is the half-blood doing here?!”

“We are to keep watch over him, mother. Master Nott’s orders,” said Iorath curtly. Ysbail relented when she heard that. Unfortunately, Eiriol did not.

“So now we hold Death Eater hostages with us? What a lovely way of making us walking targets for the Ministry! You may give Nott and Selwyn my regards, Iorath!” she spat. Ysbail glared daggers at her outburst.

“Orders are orders, Eiriol. And we are not to be anyone’s targets,” replied Iorath. Eiriol rolled her eyes, but refrained from continuing the exchange. Iorath, meanwhile, felt tired already. He could not bear anyone’s presence by now, not even Eiriol, who was being decidedly tubborn in opposing the idea of aiding the Death Eaters.

“I’m leaving for a while. I need you to watch Davis yourselves.”

The three women looked at him incredulously.

“You can’t be serious,” hissed Eiriol.

“That’s your duty, not ours. I want nothing to do with that half-blood!” screeched Mairwen.

“You will do as you are told, boy! Stay here now!” bellowed Ysbail.

The three women were starting to resemble banshees who would scream and hiss until his sanity was destroyed. Iorath’s skin crawled, his eyes felt heavy and his ears felt as if they were bleeding. He could not stand any of them right now.

“Shut up. Shut. Up,” he gasped. They kept heckling him. They would not stop.

“Please, shut up,” he begged pathetically. Ysbail’s harsh voice shouted curses at him. Mairwen’s words were like someone scratching a blackboard, shrill and high. Eiriol was akin to an angry serpent. The three of them were beyond unbearable. He had to get out. He had to remove them from his sight.

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

His voice was unrecognisable even to himself. The three women stared at Iorath, their faced astonished.

“I’m leaving and you’re watching him. If he escapes, then it shall be not only on my head, but also on yours. I’m the Death Eater here,” he said, snarling. His eyes looked mad. Neither Mairwen nor Ysbail seemed willing to contradict him, the former almost scared.

Eiriol returned the snarl to him for a time, quiet. Then, she drew a deep breath. “Alright. Leave if you desire so, cousin. I’ll make sure the half-blood does not escape.”

Iorath’s facial muscles relaxed. He then remembered why Eiriol was his favourite cousin.

“What?! You’re serious, sister?! We’re not common servants to our nancy cousin!” Mairwen’s screeching voice rang.

“You’re too ready to open your legs to a man who doubles your age, but call me a servant for helping my cousin? At least he’s family,” her older sister answered coldly.

Ysbail merely sneered at Iorath and left for her room, cursing him and his cousins under her breath. Eiriol then glared at Davis. The Auror stared at the exchange dumbfounded. “Get up and move. You’ll sleep in my room tonight. When my cousin is fit to care properly for you, you’ll stay in his room until you are summoned by my cousin’s _friends_.”

She then looked at Iorath, who was starting to calm down. “You take away the half-blood’s wand. I don’t want him to try anything funny, I don’t.”

“Of course, Eiriol.” He went to Davis and asked for his wand. The Auror reluctantly gave it to him. He then went for the door, whispering “thank you” as he went past Eiriol.

“Just come quickly, cousin,” she muttered back to him.

He opened the door and left, hearing once again the echo of female screams as Ysbail and Mairwen entered into another verbal quarrel.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Iorath was sitting on a bench on the West Parade. His face was buried in his hands he sobbed. He could feel the salty taste of his own tears in his palms.

He knew that there was no going back now. To do so meant certain death by now. The Death Eaters and the Dark Lord would condemn him to a gruesome death preceded by the maddest of tortures if he betrayed them or showed enough hesitation, while siding with the Ministry or that so-called Order of the Phoenix meant a life in Azkaban. Either fate was something he could not allow. Every time he committed a foul deed in the name of the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord, he consoled himself with the fact that there was no other way.

It was never as true as it was now. There was no way but forward. Everything else meant death.

However, that grim reality did little to console him. The whimpering last moments of Darren as he begged to be put down like an ill dog, Ainsley being torn apart by the Dark Lord while Iorath manipulated him with the Imperius Curse and now Gerard Abbott, his throat slashed and bleeding like a pig in a slaughterhouse in front of Davis. Iorath had the certainty that all those images would haunt him for the rest of his life. For some, killing became natural after a few murders, he had heard. They slowly built a wall of apathy they pretended to be strength.

He either was terrible at building that wall of apathy or, as many in his life had suspected, he was a weakling. A weak-willed boy who tried to rise above his status.

“Hey”, a soft male voice called him. Iorath ignored him and kept his face covered by his hands.

“Hey!” the voice called, this time a bit more forceful. Iorath lifted his head and looked. A muggle man, probably. He was of average height, black hair and black eyes, with pale skin and high cheekbones.

“You alright, mate? You look like hell,” the stranger began.

Iorath’s body tensed. “I fail to see how it concerns you, sir,” he answered curtly. The man ruefully scratched the back of his head.

“Sorry, mate. It’s just that it’s odd to see someone at this time of the night on the streets, let alone someone crying,” he replied. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Iorath looked at him as if he was completely insane. “Is it a habit of yours to offer help to complete strangers or do you intend to mug me? If it’s the later, I do not advise it,” he spat.

The stranger snorted at that. “Forgive me for being blunt, but even if I were to mug someone, it wouldn’t be you, mate. You don’t seem to have that many pennies on yourself,” he said drily. Iorath’s reddened eyes glared at him. The man shrugged.

“As for whether I make a habit of aiding blokes I don’t know, well, not really. Only the handsome ones, perhaps”, he smirked.

Great, the day ends with a lowly muggle flirting with me, thought Iorath. Of all the ways this horrible day could end, it had to end with a muggle trying to fraternize with him.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, I’m afraid,” answered Iorath. The stranger raised his right eyebrow.

“Really? Sorry then, perhaps I misread the signs then,” he then sat down on the same bench Iorath was sitting.

“Don’t you think you’re being far too intrusive, boy?” asked the blond man acidly.

The man shrugged. “I’m merely sitting on a bench on the street. No crime being committed,” he said. Iorath tried not to wince at the last phrase. The man then produced a cigarette and lighter. He lit the cigarette up and started smoking. “Want one, mate?”

Iorath shook his head, “I don’t smoke, thanks,” he answered curtly.

“Suit yourself, friend,” the stranger said simply. Iorath had to thank the muggle imbecile; much of his anguish was being replaced by annoyance.

“You probably did not listen to me clearly. Allow me to repeat myself: you’re barking at the wrong tree,” he drawled.

The black haired man shot him a grin. “Sorry, I know you said that. It’s just that I’ve seen you around with another bloke a few years ago, one who used some really queer black robes. Can’t blame a guy to keep his hopes up after that,” he said cheekily. Iorath went pale. He had been seen with Flint.

“You’re the son of a rather unpleasant old woman, right?” he asked. Subtlety was not a virtue the man possessed, that much was obvious.

“You must be punched in the face very often if you speak that way of other people’s mothers,” he remarked. The man actually seemed to regret his blunder.

“Sorry, I-I often put my foot into my mouth,” he stammered.

“That much is obvious,” Iorath answered, his tenor voice silky by now. The unwanted exchange was at least amusing. The man seemed to think so as well, as he chuckled in response.

“Well, at least you have a sense of humour, mate. Didn’t seem so at first,” he then hesitated before continuing “If- I understand you don’t want to speak about whatever’s bothering you, but perhaps just company and some idle chatter can get your mind off your troubles.”

Iorath laughed bitterly at the idea. Can somebody forget they’re murderers by chatting nonsense? Muggle brains were most certainly addled. “Really now? Are you a psychologist of sorts?”

“I am, actually. I work at a medical centre near here. I help people with addictions,” he hesitated, “Not that you need help with that, mind you.”

Iorath actually smiled at the man. “That’s commendable.” He did not understand why among healers and mediwitches there were so few who dealt with troubles of the mind that were not strictly biological or magical in nature. Hogwarts could use such a specialty, he thought drily.

The man blushed slightly, “Thanks,” he mumbled. “You sure you don’t want to talk? About anything, really. I can do the talking at first if you don’t feel like it just yet.”

The impertinent man was at least a distraction, that much was certain. Smirking, Iorath replied “You could start by telling me your name. If I’m to be accosted by a complete strager, the very least he can do is identify himself.”

The man grinned to Iorath. “John King. Psychologist, as I told you. You?”

“Iorath Kneath. Nobody special,” he returned the favour, lying ever so slightly. Muggles did not need to know much more, after all.

“A Welshman born and raised, eh?” he grinned. Then he began to chat the time away.

The man certainly had a way to ramble without aim at all beyond filling the space with small talk. He was English and had moved at the age of sixteen to Rhyl. He finished his studies at the age of twenty-three and immediately began working. By now, Iorath knew much more of the man than he cared to at first. Still, he listened attentively.

“Well, beyond a love for pastries and cigarettes, the latter you’re certainly aware of, there’s little else to tell,” he finished cheerfully.

The blond man nodded. “Thanks,” he managed to say.

“For what?” John asked innocently.

“You were right, surprisingly enough. Your pointless chatter did manage to get my mind off,” was Iorath’s response. John’s grin was now wide. The man was awfully happy with himself, Iorath noticed.

“You don’t have to tell me anything today. If you want, you can come and talk to me. I’m often passing through here at this hour. My house is pretty close to the parade,” he offered.

Iorath looked at him for a minute, then he replied “I don’t think I’ll be around here that much. I’ve got much to do.”

John nodded, slightly disappointed. “Sure, no problem. But if you happen to be around, then we can meet up and chat. These are troubled times. Plenty of murders around lately,” he said. Iorath tried his best not to wince. He knew full well that many of the murders were committed by the Death Eaters in their muggle hunting raids. John must have noticed his distress.

“You alright?” he asked.

Iorath quickly nodded. “Nothing to worry about,” he then changed the subject, “About meeting up again, John... your address?”

The black-eyed’s face lit up. He took a pen and a paper out of his pockets. He wrote down his address and handled the paper to Iorath.

“If you ever want to grab some drinks we can meet up there and go to a bar, if you want,” he said brightly. Iorath just nodded.

“Sure, we’ll see,” he then looked back. He had to return by now. He could not leave Eiriol alone with Davis.

“Sorry, I must go,” he said shortly. John nodded, still smiling

“No problem, Iorath. Hoping to see you again,” he said, and shook his hand. Then both went in opposite directions. Iorath looked behind, and saw John looking back at him, smiling

This could be another problem, thought Iorath. He was already looked upon for being of humbler origins than most purebloods and an uphill gardener at that. To fraternize with a muggle, a lesser being, could only mean trouble.

Then he remembered Nott’s words: everyone has some sins on the side. And as long as they keep it on the side, those sins may be forgiven.

What his family and the Death Eaters did not need to know, he would not tell them. Especially if it helped him keep his sanity.

He was, after all, helping purify the Wizarding World to redeem himself. All sins would be forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite happy with the tone at the chapter's end, but alas. For those who are as off-put as me for the rather mushy end, don't worry, this won't be a romantic angsty fic. Relations will serve a purpose to the overall plot, or at least that's my intention. Whether or not I succeed is to be seen. And yeah, it'll be hard to find a sympethetic character, but hey. It's a fic about wizard-nazis and their supporters. They're bound to be unpleasant folks. I do hope they're not one-note villains (which depends on my writing skills which means... lol). Feel free to leave comments. Your imput is more than welcome!


	5. The Most Pleasant of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorath and Davis go on with the hunt/recruitment of blood-traitors. Selwyn is a prick. Iorath is a fool. Eiriol and Mairwen have a bit of a sisterly moment. Everyone maintains their resolve to carry on a path that will most certainly end badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking such a while! Hope you enjoy this chapter and, if you do so or most importantly if you don't, feel free to tell me what worked and what didn't! Be especially merciless if you detect grammar and spelling mistakes. This is done partly to practice and improve my English.

### The Most Pleasant of Dreams

“Stay put,” the black-haired woman with a pockmarked face told Liam curtly, “and wait for my cousin. You may sleep, it would be preferable.”

The Auror looked at her as if she had a second head. “You expect me to sleep while you watch over me? Fat chance, ma’am,” he complained. The woman’s face remained emotionless, her blue eyes boring into him with little concern beyond that of an unwanted duty.

“If you want to lose a night’s sleep just because you can’t bear someone watching you, it’s not my concern. Stay on the bed, all the same. If you attempt anything funny, my wand talk you to sleep,” she threatened him without raising her voice. Though high-pitched, her voice sounded rather monotone and akin to a whisper.

Liam sighed in exasperation. “The sick and demented bastard of your cousin made sure I was not to attempt to escape or the like, ma’am. So did your Death Eater friends,” he snarled. The woman frowned slightly, but remained unfazed at Liam’s anger.

“Did he now? I wonder what Iorath could have done to elicit such meekness from a Ministry stooge,” she replied, her lips curled.

The Auror’s face was livid, his fists clenched in anger. The woman was either an imbecile or she was prodding him, as any Death Eater or pureblood maniac would. Even if she appeared to be the least insane of the Kneath rabble, there was little doubt she was also a sadist.

“What he did? How about slowly tearing Ainsley apart with the aid of You-Know-Who before me and threatening my girlfriend and my unborn child? Or Cruciating me and slitting a man’s throat before me, bathing me in his blood? Do you think I would attempt anything by now, you witch?” he hollered. The woman’s frown deepened, and her mouth was slightly agape.

“My cousin would not Cruciate anyone,” she said, her voice gaining suddenly steely. Liam snorted.

“Your cousin’s a sadistic scum, woman! How do you think he earned that snake-vomiting-skull on his arm? By picking up roses and sending the bouquets to You-Know-Who?!”

The woman looked at Liam intently. She apparently was scrutinizing him, her blue eyes looking him as if he was some sort of oddity to be researched... and dissected. She bit her lip in thought.

“You’re telling me you’ve been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse, and by my cousin of all people?” she asked, her face doing the best to remain stoic, but Liam noticed cracks in the woman’s facade. Her lower lip was trembling slightly, while sweat could be seen in her forehead. The Auror nodded curtly.

“And he and the Dark Lord somehow tortured your fellow Ministry thug to death?”

“Do you want me to describe in detail how Abbott’s throat was cut as if he was a pig and drenched me in blood, too? You seem to be slow enough not to understand anything you’re told only once, Kneath,” he said scathingly. The pockmarked woman was not impressed with Liam’s lack of restraint. She went straight to him and slapped him.

“You’ll learn respect, moronic thug,” she hissed, her other hand grasping the wand she had hanging on her waist, “lest you want to see who among us is the most twisted. I’ve got a few flasks of Weedosoros and so very few testers, after all!”

Liam’s snarl at her did not diminish, but he remained silent. He looked at the Kneath woman with scorn, waiting for her to continue her questioning.

“You claim Iorath tortured your friend in order to be accepted by the Dark Lord, then?” she asked quietly, her stoic mask reassuming its position.

“He did. If you need to know, he used the Imperius Curse to force Ainsley to attempt to Apparate. Th-then”, he stammered and looked elsewhere as he continued, far from the Kneath woman’s blue eyes, “then You-Know-Who used his magic to force Ainsley into Splinching until-until he was torn to pieces. Limb by limb.”

The memory of Robert Ainsley’s brutal murder was not something Liam was keen on remembering. Ainsley was a good man, if a bit rough on the edges. And the blood... The expression of sheer sadism on You-Know-Who’s bone-white face, his scarlet eyes gleaming with the darkest of joys... And Iorath Kneath being a pathetic excuse of a human being as he obeyed his Lord’s word.

The memory was too fresh not to bring tears to Liam’s eyes. Fear and loss were suddenly something he was far too familiar with. And if he committed any mistake, he would be even more intimate with both sensations.

The Kneath woman seemed to notice Liam’s tears. “Well, I won’t need Veritaserum, at least. I’ve got little to spare, and it isn’t the sort of potion I can do perfectly. For what it’s worth, I could be forcing you to drink poison,” she spoke in a business-like manner without staring at him, focusing her eyes on the wall. Liam’s snarl vanished. He noticed that the woman was perturbed by was she had just learnt.

“He didn’t tell you?” he asked without thinking twice. The woman ceased her staring at the wall and threw him a filthy look.

“Would I be interrogating you if I knew, Auror?”

Liam guessed the woman had a point in being annoyed. To be kept out of the loop by her cousin was probably not something anyone would be pleased, especially if murder, torture, blackmail and general bigotry were involved. He decided not to be that blunt with the Kneath woman this time and merely nodded. There was little point in antagonizing her any further.

“Imbecile,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes flaring with anger as she looked at nowhere in particular, “complete and utter imbecile. To be voluntarily involved in this mess is something only gormless worms would do!”

The Auror widened his eyes in surprise. The woman was actually angry at Iorath, muttering curses at him. He guessed it was mostly out of self-preservation rather than concern over her cousin being a criminal serving under one of the most heinous organizations in the Wizarding World so far. Slytherins like her were after survival before anything else. Those of a less-than-lucky upbringing such as her were probably even more preoccupied with staying alive.

Kneath’s cousin kept muttering furiously under her breath, stopping on occasion to bite her nails. Liam noticed her hands were calloused and her nails were kept short by constant biting. Her robes were of a mirthless brown like her sister’s but they appeared to be dirtier, stains of grass and other substances decorating them. The older cousin was clearly a woman who regularly worked, probably with herbs and potion ingredients, if what he had heard of the woman was true. She stopped her ranting when she realized she was being watched intently by Liam.

“He threatened your family, you said?” she asked, squinting at him. Liam nodded without saying a word.

“He’s an imbecile!” she groaned, her right hand slapping her forehead in anger. “To be involved with these madmen and to threaten an Auror...”

“If it’s any consolation, I won’t go snitching on your cousin. He made sure I wouldn’t do that without regretting it,” he bitterly spat. He expected another angry reaction from the Kneath woman, but she gave him a queer look. It was as if she almost felt sorry for him. They stood awkwardly for a while.

“You shouldn’t have involved yourself in this,” she said finally. Her expression no longer showed any sign of anger. Liam, however, was annoyed by her words. He was an Auror doing his duty, and fell into a trap that put his life and the lives of those he loved under peril.

“You think I had a choice?! You think that I didn’t know the risks I was undertaking by facing you Death Eaters?!”

Anger once again took hold of the woman’s face. “I am not a Death Eater, Auror. Nor do I want anything to do with them,” she hissed. Liam was not deterred. If anything, her sincere delimitation towards the Death Eaters incensed him further.

“Then why do you aid them?! Why keep watching over me until your Death Eater relatives arrive?! Just because you do what your family asks you to do, like a pawn?!” he hollered, his face livid with rage.

The woman’s response was curt. “Indeed, I do what is asked of me because I want to defend myself and my family from any harm. I think you’re familiar with that situation, Auror.”

Liam’s face fell. He suddenly felt hollow. It was hard to acknowledge that Kneath’s cousin was being an accomplice to foul deeds because she wanted to defend her family just like he did. After all, Liam was the one who gave Iorath the information required to go after Abbot. It did not matter that he tried to help him escape afterwards; the Death Eater was led to his target by Liam’s own hand.

The woman’s gaze relaxed once again. Her face was unreadable as she spoke. “If Iorath Cruciated you, then he lied to Nott about you saving him from a spell,” she deduced. Liam was surprised at her guess.

“I tried to help Abbott escape, so that we would Apparate back to the Ministry and stop your cousin and his superiors. Iorath stopped me, and then he did... well, you already know,” he answered curtly. It was enough information for one of his captor’s aides, and dwelling on the recent events was throwing salt to an open wound.

The Kneath woman’s gaze was still concentrated on him, her lips pursed. She then shook her head. “I thought his report to Nott was far too flattering,” she muttered under her breath.

“This bodes ill for all of us, including you,” she whispered, and her face now was showing plain worry. “You are under the _care_ of Death Eaters, one of them just initiated into the organization. So is your family, from what you’ve told me.”

She was going to explain him the situation to him now? He was quite aware that the gaze of even You-Know-Who was upon him and Becca.

“And I must tell you; for all that Iorath is rather... meek at first, he is a skilled wizard. And he has apparently dabbled far too deep into the Dark Arts, as it would be expected of a Death Eater. Nott is a sly, manipulative bastard and Selwyn a psychopath and a sadist. Both of them are shielded not only by their connection to the Dark Lord but also by their status,” her nose wrinkled in disgust, “I advice you against defying them,” she continued, her voice steady.

“Selwyn in particular enjoys hunting muggles and killing them in... creative ways. He was probably the one assigned to watch over your muggle woman, should you stray from your new duties,” to this, Liam’s eyes widened in terror. He remembered Selwyn was the Death Eater who introduced himself by punching Iorath. If such an unhinged man was the one to execute Becca... No, he would not do that! But that meant...

“You understand now,” she said, her face now sombre, almost sad. He knew what he meant when his hands touched his face. It was streaked with tears. His body was trembling.

“Auror, you are to do as they tell you. If the Dark Lord and Iorath’s torture were not enough, then please think of your family,” her gaze stopped its focus on him, her head turned to a side, “you are now on the same boat as I.”

Silently, she went for something within her dirtied robes and handed him a handkerchief. She was respectful enough to look elsewhere as he sobbed into the piece of cloth.

Liam calmed himself down, though the feeling of hopelessness would not abandon him. Becca and Tracey, his unborn yet already loved Tracey, were in mortal danger, not just him. Voldemort had let him know as much and he briefly ignored that for a slight chance. If Kneath somehow reported Nott and Selwyn, they would all have been slain.

He looked up at Kneath’s cousin, his eyes still red. “If you could, would you not follow your cousin and aunt into this madness?”

The woman looked sternly at him, but this time it was not anger. She then answered with a question and a statement.

“Why ponder on what cannot be, Auror? Better to act with one’s existing resources so that they may survive, along with their loved ones.”

Her breathy voice was filled with bitterness as she stared through the window. Then, the noise of a door opening was heard. Steps approached the room and a knock was heard.

“Must be Iorath. I’ll open,” the Kneath woman said. Liam stopped her, rising from the bed he was sitting on and went to hand her back her kerchief.

“Thanks, Kneath,” he said simply as he tried to grasp her hand to give it back to her. The woman shook her head and put his hands away.

“Eiriol will do. If you are to remain under our custody, you cannot call everyone Kneath here. And you can keep that, it’s just cloth,” she said flatly.

“Got it, Eiriol. I... thanks,” he muttered. Then he tried to smile at her as he continued, “I’m Liam Davis. No need to call me Auror or mongrel.” Eiriol nodded curtly. She would not grant further reply, it seemed.

The knock on the door was heard again, this time a bit more forceful. Eiriol rolled her eyes and opened the door.

“You took your time, cousin. Where were you?” she asked immediately. Iorath Kneath shrugged dismissively.

“Elsewhere. I had to take a break, Eiriol,” he said. It was obvious to everyone in the room that he would avoid giving any real explanation. Eiriol sighed.

“We’ll speak later, then. You’re taking Davis with you, aren’t you?” Iorath Kneath nodded.

“Good,” she then looked at Liam. “Try to sleep,” she said simply. Liam nodded back at her.

“Good night, ma’am,” he returned the greeting. Iorath and Eiriol also greeted each other and he left with Liam for their room.

Liam knew every step he took would be watched now, and if there was something he could gain from Eiriol is certainty that Becca was in mortal danger. As he walked alongside Iorath, his thoughts gained the form of determination. Eiriol was right.

The struggle now was for survival for him and his loved ones. If You-Know-Who and his servants were as powerful as it seemed, then he would aid them in their dark quest.

Becca and Tracey mattered more. The Ministry be damned.

Mairwen flourished her wand and dispelled the Disillusionment Charm she had cast around herself. She was standing next to the room she was to share with Eiriol. The young woman was smiling coyly. Apparently, her sister was fraternising far too much with the Auror mongrel that her stupid cousin Iorath had to watch and use for his mission. She opened the door without announcing herself and flashed Eiriol a smile.

“So, dear sister!” she began, the falsely honeyed tone of her voice she enjoyed to use when she caught on something that was supposed to be hidden, “you seem to be getting along just fine with that mongrel!”

Eiriol sighed, apparently unsurprised by her sister’s knowledge of the conversation that had transpired minutes ago. “Eavesdropping again, Mairwen?” she asked. Mairwen’s smile was predatory.

“Please, sister. I’m merely taking care of you. After all, even if you’re rather homely, you cannot allow yourself to mar our bloodline with a half-blood, and a muggle-loving half-blood at that. It’s just sisterly concern,” she purred.

Eiriol remained unimpressed. “Indeed. You shouldn’t worry; I’m not interested in the Auror that way. I simply think that mere threats and intimidation aren’t enough to convey true obedience. A degree of sugar-coating is needed to ensure loyalty,” she explained, as if talking down to a child. Mairwen snorted.

“Truly. Well, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. After all, even you could not lower your standards that much to mate with that mongrel,” she spat venomously. Eiriol gave her a queer look.

“You mean that murderous old men are high standards, dear Mairwen?” she asked with false innocence. Mairwen shot her a smirk.

“A murderous old man who is not only pureblooded, but part of the Sacred Twenty Eight. The very circle that we couldn’t be part of, sister. Not only that; Tristam Nott is related to Cantankerus Nott, the one who wrote the Pureblood Directory! He even has direct connection to the Dark Lord!” she exclaimed with glee.

Mairwen’s older sister rolled her eyes. “He’s still rather venerable, to put it mildly and having direct connection to the Dark Lord only makes us larger targets to the Ministry. Do you honestly think that your life is that worthless to bind it to an elderly bastard?”

To that, Mairwen actually felt offense. “Don’t speak of him like that, Eiriol! He’s a respectable man, unlike most of us who are viewed as blood-pretenders and scum! Can you not see that this is an opportunity?”

Her sister scowled at Mairwen’s words. She truly was dense, thought the younger woman. To improve one’s status through marriage and be linked to the Sacred Twenty Eight was an objective to pursue. Surely her sister could see that?

Eiriol shook her head. “Do you really want to throw away your freedom just for some status? To be a domestic hen whose job is putting pureblooded eggs and looking pretty?”

Mairwen scoffed. “Freedom? You call our life freedom? Wallowing in poverty, living among muggles despite being purebloods, being spit on by mudbloods and purebloods alike is to be enjoyed because we are _free_? I prefer being a slave!”

Her sister snarled. “No wonder why our parents’ deaths didn’t faze you that much. Rather than a loss, they were one obstacle less in your path to success. Two Squibs le-“

Mairwen took out her wand and aimed at her sister. Her normally pretty face was contorted in anger. Eiriol, rather than answering in kind to her threat, sneered at her. “Please, sister, we both know you’re rather pathetic as a witch,” she said. Still, her hand moved swiftly to her wand on her hip.

“You think I’m a rather pathetic witch, don’t you? _Diff_ -“

“ _Expelliarmus_!” exclaimed Eiriol, her movements faster and more precise than her sister. Mairwen’s wand flew to the door, falling. “ _Accio Mairwen’s wand_!” she then said. The wand then shot itself towards Eiriol, who swiftly grabbed it.

“As I said, you’re pathetic as a witch. If you were in a duel to death against, say, our mongrel of an Auror, you’d be pushing up daisies,” Eiriol mocked her sister. Mairwen was still seething in fury.

“You honestly think I’m just a slag who is thankful for her parents’ deaths, don’t you? You think me heartless enough to be grateful to maniacs for killing the people who raised me?!

“You’re wrong, you stupid minger!” shrieked Mairwen, her voice filled with anger and tears. Eiriol stared at her in astonishment. “You’re a complete moron if you even suggest I wanted our parents dead! I wish to survive! I went on with my life, something your brain seems unable of processing! But no, Eiriol is the only one who actually feels her parents’ loss, not her bint of a sister, who dares to continue with her life!”

Eiriol remained silent, her eyes wide as her sister started sobbing. She then sighed.

“I’m surrounded by unstable madmen and sobs-stories,” she said, her arms up in annoyance. That gesture merely incensed Mairwen even more. She had just spoken her heart on her parents’ deaths and Eiriol acted like she did not care? How dare she?

“Of course the skilled witch of our family cares very little for how her selfish tart of a sister feels. It’s always about you, Eiriol. About how talented you are at potions. About your good marks at Charms. What good did it do to us in the long term? You have a manky shop that barely helps us get through! I’m actually doing something that might help both of us and you scorn it!”

“You are selfish, Mairwen,” replied Eiriol, but her tone was calmer than before, “but you’re neither a tart nor a bint.” Mairwen looked at her for a second . Suddenly, she started sobbing, her whole body shaking. Mairwen did not notice her sister coming closer to her until she felt her arms embracing her and whispering her calming words.

“I never wanted my parents’ deaths! I never did! It’s the fault of those-those-those magic thieves! The mudbloods! They stole our parents’ magic! They...” but her words became incoherent in her sobbing. Eiriol kept hugging her.

“I’m sorry for having said that, sister,” she told her. Mairwen, still sobbing, was shaking a bit less. It was not often that her sister showed kindness to her. To actually be treated gently rather than dismissed as it often happened was something she never got used to. It helped her quiet down. She then separated herself from Eiriol’s embrace and looked at her in the eyes.

“Tell me sister... Tell me: is it wrong to want to survive and to live well? Is it wrong to try and not dwell on losses?”

Eiriol bit her lip before replying.

“No, Mairwen. It isn’t,” she said, looking elsewhere for a brief moment. She then continued, her eyes looking directly into Mairwen’s own blue orbs. Her face was once again severe. “What’s wrong is to sell one’s freedom in exchange for wealth and power. I don’t want to see you degrading yourself as a pureblood hen.”

Mairwen gave a tiny smile to her sister. “You don’t want to lose me, Eiriol,” she realized. Eiriol scoffed, but said nothing. The brown-haired witch then jumped towards her sister and hugged her tightly. Eiriol was initially shocked, but eventually returned the embrace.

When they were apart, Mairwen was smiling; her face and eyes still red from crying. A bit of make-up was actually falling down from her eyes. She then looked at her sister with resolve.

“I would never abandon you, sister. I want you to be with me when I help us achieve our place. Both you and I deserve a better life,” she said firmly. Then she added “Besides... I really am attracted to Nott. Please, please, hear me out!” she could see Eiriol curl her lips in disgust, “yes, he’s quite older than me and not that attractive, but you haven’t spoken to him as long as I did! He’s really cultured and witty. He knows much of music, even! Imagine listening to Celestina Warbeck at a theatre rather than depending on the Wizarding Wireless Network! Tristam often goes to see her!” she gushed.

Eiriol rolled her eyes, but her expression was sympathetic. “If you so insist, Mairwen,” she said, with mock resignation. Mairwen flashed her dimpled smile. This time, however, the young woman knew she was being sincere. She hoped Eiriol knew so as well.

Her older sister then looked sombre once again. “You’re right on something, though,” she suddenly said. Mairwen looked at her oddly.

“It appears I’ve already lost our cousin to the Death Eaters. I don’t want to lose my sister,” she said under her breath. For once, Eiriol looked vulnerable. Her older sister was hugging herself, as if she had to hold her body so that it would not fall. Mairwen gave her sister what was the third hug in the night. A part in the back of her head was chortling in disbelief, but otherwise it felt right.

“You’re not losing anyone. When the Dark Lord achieves his triumph, we will all be rewarded. We will all be free, and our parents shall be avenged,” she said comfortingly.

Eiriol did not seem that pleased, however. Still, she returned the hug while refraining from speaking any further.

Mairwen then went to her bed. “Good night, Eiriol,” she said and flashed a dimpled smile once again. Eiriol returned the gesture timidly, trying to hide some of her missing teeth.

“Good night, Mairwen,” she replied.

As she drifted to her sleep, Mairwen had found her resolve. She would not just survive; she would help her whole family overcome Iorath’s failures and, if possible, set him straight (as much as it was possible, at least). She would do everything within her power to improve their position. Mairwen and Eiriol were not sorted into Slytherin for nothing; they would achieve greatness, they would have great families and their children would be privileged within Wizarding society. She would no longer be the spawn of Squibs who lacked the talent of her older sister.

Mairwen was set to rise above the downtrodden status. Greatness was within her grasp, and nothing would deter her.

The next morning was eventful for Liam. Iorath woke up earlier than him and was waiting outside the recently acquired Kneath household.

“I spoke to Selwyn through the Floo network. He only mentioned a name, Alexander Fawley,” said Iorath Kneath. His voice was tired, and it was clear that he had not got a decent sleep last night. Liam wondered how the Death Eater managed to function without sleeping.

“I don’t think you’re having much luck there, Kneath. Like the Abbotts, the Fawleys are a family of what you call blood traitors. Most of them sorted into Hufflepuff, and a handful in Ravenclaw,” Liam warned the Death Eater.

Iorath smiled grimly. “Good to know what we’re dealing with. The Abbott fiasco will be useful as a reference on what not to do,” he eyed Liam suspiciously. The freckled man’s face was stony, but he did not reply. By now Liam was resolute on playing along with Iorath’s game of persecution.

“Want to escort me near the Auror offices in London, Kneath? The sooner we’re done with this, the better,” Liam said curtly. Iorath nodded at him and grabbed his shoulder. Soon, the familiar feeling of being torn to pieces and then reforming overcame Liam as they Apparated into London.

The morning was surprisingly lovely for this time of year. Cold yet sunny and not all that wet. That was something Liam was used to. In general, the damp weather of the British capital city was something rarely avoided by its citizens.

The two men walked a few streets and found themselves near the Ministry of Magic Headquarters. Liam nodded silently to Iorath and went ahead alone, entering the offices.

Doing his best in not being noticed by someone of interest, Liam went straight to the Auror offices. He greeted a few of his colleagues, some thanking him for being alive and others asking how he was dealing with Ainsley’s demise. The more suspicious ones whispered about how Liam managed to get away when Ainsley was quartered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Liam ignored them, restraining himself from taking out his wand and hexing those fools. He had a duty here and it was not going to be hampered by fools.

He reached for the identification and addresses registers within the archives. With a wand movement, the names of several wizards and witches were revealed to him. Liam’s mouth curled slightly into a reluctant smirk as the Welbeck and Queen Anne crossroad appeared when he looked for Alexander Fawley. The flat was on the fifth floor.

“Got it. Time to move,” he muttered under his breath and left swiftly.

He was striding towards the exit, when suddenly someone bumped into him. A woman with sandy hair and clear blue eyes whom Liam recognised as a member of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes was wincing after colliding with him.

“Ow, watch where you’re going, you boosthoon! You almost- Davis!” her pale face went red. “Sorry, Mr. Davis, really sorry, I was in a hurry just yet and-“

Liam interrupted her, “It’s okay, Miss-uh,”

“Mrs. Finnigan now!” she chirped and raised her hand and continued with glee “Aislynn Finnigan, née Daly! Remember when you told me last year at that after-office that when it comes to love it matters not whether your lad is a wizard or not? Well, I followed your advice! I married a muggle! Bit of a shock for him when he found out I was a witch, but all the same I’m so happy!”

Liam was trying his best not to howl at her. The woman was babbling far too much for the sake of his sanity. He now remembered her from an inter-Department party that went awry. When she was not talking about the crazier conspiracy theories The Prophet had invented she was talking non-stop, as if she had chucked down a Babbling Beverage. From what he garnered from other Aurors more familiar with the Department ofMagical Accidents and Catastrophes, the woman had an unenviable record of volatile accidents.

“Uh, that’s great to know, but I must-“he tried to speak, but she interrupted him.

“What I wanted to say is thank you! Thank you, Davis! I’ve never been so happy! What’s more, we’re expecting! Oh, I’m so overjoyed, and I owe much of it to you! You always mentioned your girlfriend, a lovely muggle girl, and it inspired her. How is she?”

The Auror bit his lip and then replied with a forced smile “She’s quite well. We’re also with child. That’s why I’m in a hurry, I have to accompany Becca to the muggle hospital.”

Aislynn Finnigan’s eyes widened, as did her joyous smile. “Oh, I’m so happy for you! Congratulations! I get the indirect, though, no need! Go, go! She’s waiting for you! Oh, I wish you so much luck, lad!”

Liam smiled politely and nodded. “Thank you, Mi-Mrs. Finnigan. My best wishes to you too. I’m sure that baby will grow to be a fine man eventually. Have a good day,” he said courteously and left, while Mrs. Finnigan was waving her hand. The Auror was resolute on ignoring that woman.

He found Iorath in a dark alley near the Whitehall that hid the Ministry. The blond wizard was feigning being busy reading the Daily Prophet, apparently annoyed at some of the publications. When he saw Liam coming, his gaze rose from the newspaper.

“Address?” he asked simply.

“Welbeck and Queen Anne streets,” he replied.

“Good,” the Death Eater muttered, and grabbed the Auror informant by the shoulder. They Apparated again, this time into a rather beautiful set of streets. The architecture here was much more graceful, the red-bricked buildings taller and with smooth white entrances. Flowers decorated the balconies, giving the place an air of elegance. He remembered Westminster, but he was unused to the beauty of its fairer quarters.

It seemed that Iorath was even more astonished. The gaunt man’s eyes looked up to the beautiful balconies with barely concealed awe. That time, Liam realized that Iorath, while there was certainly the occasional lovely sight in Rhyl, the wealth flaunted by the local muggles was something he had very little contact with.

The Death Eater appeared to have noticed Liam’s attention, and quickly reassumed the task, going for the marked house. Despite the daylight and that there were muggles walking down the street, Iorath seemed intent on finishing the business as fast as possible, even if it required a breach in the Statute of Secrecy, apparently, since he had taken out his wand.

“What are you doing?! There are muggles about!” Liam approached to the Death Eater and whispered him urgently. Iorath shrugged.

“I haven’t done anything yet, Davis. For the cattle here, we’re just two vagabonds, one with a wooden stick, is all,” replied the blond man drily. Liam scowled at him.

“And you’ve just taken your wand to pretend you’re a vagabond with a wooden stick, I take it?” spat the Auror. To that, Kneath rolled his eyes.

“Yes, precisely. It’s exactly that. With such wit gracing the Aurors’ minds, it’s no wonder the Dark Lord has had so much success so far,” he retorted. Then he grabbed Liam’s arm and forced him down a shadowed, less crowded corner. There, when no muggle was watching, the Death Eater casted a Disillusionment Charm.

“Not very subtle, let me tell you,” muttered Liam under his breath. Iorath paid him no attention, and steps were heard as he probably went for the marked building, amplifying the Charm’s radius when needed.

“Alohomora,” Liam heard Iorath’s tenor voice whisper, and the door opened. The Auror quietly walked towards the entrance as well. Both the Auror informant and the Death Eater were past the Disillusionment Charm’s radius, and they became visible once again. Luckily for them, there were no muggles nearby.

“Well, on which floor should our lucky Fawley fellow be?” asked Iorath with a grimace on his face. While the man was certainly scum, at the very least he did not truly take pleasure from carrying out the tasks required by Lord Voldemort. He was certainly better than what he had seen from Selwyn.

“Fifth floor. Afterwards, I may cast a few spells so to detect wizards nearby. Do you know if he would be expecting any help?” asked the Auror. Kneath shrugged.

“There have been several blood traitors targeted by the Dark Lord. They probably have taken notice of Abbott and other losses to Death Eaters, even though I did not summon the Mark with Abbott’s execution,” he said in a flat tone. Liam sighed.

“Great, so we can expect a counterattack from the Ministry or the Order of the Phoenix,” he growled in annoyance. Iorath silently nodded. He then signalled him to follow as he went for the stairs.

The building was definitely much better maintained than the place Gerard Abbott was hiding. The hallways were of a clean white, the stairs of grey marble. They soon made it to the fifth floor.

Iorath began moving his wands and making incantations under his breath. Whatever magic he was using Liam did not recognise. The Welsh man walked down the hallway, flourishing his wand and chanting lowly. He then stopped at a door and gestured Liam to come with his hand. Liam complied, holding his breath in anticipation.

The Death Eater used his wand to cast an Unlocking Charm, and the door opened. Immediately, Iorath and Liam avoided the red blast of a Stunning Spell. Quick of reflexes, both of them returned the favour, two red spheres of light flying straight into the flat. An explosion filled the room with dust.

“What in the name of Merlin’s beard?” hissed Iorath. Another red blast came, but Liam casted a Shield Charm. The wall of silvery-blue light received the Stunning Spell’s impact, the red light banishing with a loud noise.

“ _Confringo_!” growled Iorath, aiming his wand inside the room. Another explosion filled the flat’s insides. Yelps of pain could be heard. Iorath gestured sharply at Liam, ordering him to enter the flat. Liam complied, wand in hand and ready to retaliate against any attack.

As he entered the flat’s main room, he discovered Alexander Fawley trying to attend a familiar woman whose leg was badly burned by Iorath’s Blasting Curse. The man was desperately casting healing spells.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” shouted Liam, and Fawley’s wand flew meters away.

The woman, however, tried her own counter-attack. “ _Impedimenta_!” she shrieked, her voice strained with fear. Liam was hit by the spell, stumbling, his senses and reflexes numbed. The spell was not strong enough to cause the usual bodily shock. Iorath casted his own Disarming Charm against the woman, who narrowly avoided it with a weakened Shield Charm. Fawley started running towards his wand.

Iorath, however, noticed him. “ _Incarcerous_!” he said snarling. The familiar tight ropes wrapped Fawley’s body. The man lost balance and fell to the floor, face down.

The woman then aimed her wand at Iorath, her face contorted with hatred. “ _Avada Kedavra_!” she screamed. The terrifying green blast went for Iorath, but the Welsh man had already casted his own Stunning Charm. Red and green lights formed a small explosion that threw Iorath backwards.

Liam, still reeling from the Impediment Jinx, slowly aimed at the woman, who was concentrated on Iorath. While his body was slowed by the jinx, the stranger did not notice him as she began her incantation.

“ _Avada_ -“

“ _Glacius_!” interrupted Liam. The woman’s body was encased in ice from neck to toe. Her mouth started trembling in cold. Iorath, surprised, raised an eyebrow at him and nodded in gratitude. Liam silently nodded back. Then he approached the woman, who seemed somehow familiar.

As he came closer to the female attacker, he noticed her brown hair, matching brown eyes and angular, comely face were indeed familiar.

“Reese Turpin?! What are you doing here?!” he asked in shock. The woman sneered at him, her face still shuddering from the painful cold.

“M-my duty, w-which you seem you ha-have betrayed, Davis,” she snapped, her voice slightly broken from the pain that the extreme cold was causing her.

Iorath, after having ensured Fawley would not escape anywhere, went to Liam. His face was bemused. “Friend of yours?” he asked drily. Liam made a so-so gesture with his head.

“Fellow Auror. Not a woman you’d want to cross. Her name’s Reese Turpin.”

“Oh, s-so that’s what you’re-you’re doing? S-selling information to the Death Eaters? Tell me, how much did they o-offer you?” she tried to sound scathing, but the effect was dulled by her stuttering. Liam had to admit the woman was fierce even in her pitiful condition. She clearly was made from the same steel forged Ainsley. Something Liam could not say about himself.

The Death Eater, however, was not as impressed. “Aren’t you a spitfire,” he drawled. He then gazed sternly at Liam. “They’re watching our movements.”

Liam shook his head. “Not ours in specific, but they probably have realised the likely targets. We have only so much intel regarding the ranks of Death Eaters,” he conjectured. Turpin kept sneering at them.

“You’re so eager to aid them, aren’t you? You’re scum, Davis. I knew Ainsley had not merely disappeared. You aided them in killing him, didn’t you?”

Liam was about to curse Turpin when Iorath stopped him.

“You’re wonderfully self-righteous when you’ve just used Unforgivable Curses. Isn’t that against some sort of Auror morality?” he asked silkily. The woman snorted.

“Not anymore. Minister Minchum and Crouch of the Magical Department have authorised us to use any means to stop you, blighters,” she said, attempting a grin despite the pain of the cold.

“Interesting,” said the Death Eater, his voice monotone. He then turned to Liam “She cannot leave this place alive, yet she might be of use,” he said. Liam did not like where this was going.

Iorath waved his wand at Alexander Fawley. The man’s ropes disappeared. His face had a catatonic expression. The Death Eater then flourished his wand once again.

“ _Imperio_.”

The familiar expression of ecstasy took over Fawley’s features, a drowsy, stupid smile in his lips. Iorath turned once again to Turpin and gestured Liam to get away. The Death Eater smiled grimly at the Auror, who was still looking upon him with defiance.

“It’s good to see that Ministry thugs such as you are actually putting an effort. But the Dark Arts require subtlety you lack. Here, let me show you,” and his wand moved, forcing him to grab his wand. The man aimed at Turpin’s head, the only part of her body not encased in ice. Iorath also backed away, and bowed to Turpin. Liam did not know if it was mocking or sincere.

“My condolences,Turpin. You were a fine foe.”

And Fawley waved his own wand at the female Auror’s head. “ _Confringo_.”

The explosion was not as strong as Iorath’s own Blasting Curse, but it was enough to grant any viewer a grim sight they would rather forget. The once beautiful woman’s face was no more. In a second, it exploded, charred rests of brain flying away. Blood stained the ice that held Reese Turpin as well as part of the floor.

Liam opened his mouth in shock for a few seconds, but shut it close as soon as he could. This cruelty, this cold-blooded murder, was for Becca and Tracey. He had to remind himself that. This was a sacrifice of a bit of one’s soul in exchange for the well being of them three.

Iorath, meanwhile, had a grim expression in his face. As Liam had thought before, while he was a bastard, he was not sick enough to gain pleasure from such a gruesome murder.

Fawley’s expression changed from bliss to sheer fear. The Imperius Curse’s effects had worn off.

“Wh-What happened here?” he whined.

The Death Eater looked at him coldly. “We can tell you what happened with every precision, Fawley. _Priori_ _Incantato_!” he hissed.

Suddenly, the magical echo of the Blasting Curse that had destroyed Turpin’s head was revealed. Fawley’s olive-skinned face was dripping sweat.

“I couldn’t have done that,” he whimpered, “I’m just a Healer. I wanted nothing to do with you Death Eaters! She-she was in charge of defending me!”

“And you killed her. An Auror, an agent of the Ministry, slain by you. What do you think will happen now?” drawled Iorath.

Fawley’s eyes were bulging.

“No... No, I cannot go to Azkaban. I cannot!”

“You know that is your fate after a crime of this magnitude. Unless...” the Death Eater stopped, eyeing carefully at the Fawley man.

“Unless what? Please, if-if you can do anything, please help me. I-I know Azkaban. One of my cousins was locked there and went bonkers. He doomed himself by tempting a Dementor to kiss him. Please, oh please,” he wept desperately. Liam felt pity for the man. Iorath, however, did not. Or at least he did not appear to.

“You know there’s only one option, Fawley,” whispered Iorath, coming closer to the Healer. Falwey then realised what he meant.

“No... I cannot follow You-Know-Who. I-I’m no material for your organization. I’m a blood traitor, for God’s sake!”

“Indeed, and now you’re going to rectify that mistake either by following us or following Turpin there”, he pointed at the headless corpse encased in ice, “what’s your choice? You come with or you leave with Turpin?”

The man buried his face in his hands, his body trembling. He slowly calmed down and started looking up to Iorath’s hazel eyes. His face was marred by resignation.

“Take me where you want. I won’t- won’t oppose you,” he said lamely.

Iorath gave him a thin smile. “As it was expected.”

The Welsh man dispelled the ice around Turpin’s remains. He then aimed his wand at the headless corpse.

“ _Incendio_ ,”

Blue flames consumed the dead body of the brave Auror woman. Liam wrinkled his nose in disgust, his eyes watering with the smoke. Fawley had also watery eyes, but probably for reasons much more noble than those that held Liam at bay.

Iorath then grabbed both of them and what was hopefully the last attempt at Apparition took place.

As he felt himself be torn apart swiftly, Liam drifted his thoughts once again towards his loved Becca.

Every foul deed is for her. For her and for Tracey. To do otherwise is to be selfish and damn the three of them.

Iorath walked along with Fawley and Davis towards the Kneath shack. The place did not look as decadent as it was on the outside, but the grey-stone walls did give it a rather grim appearance. The Death Eater noticed that Fawley was constantly looking at his feet. Iorath repressed the urge to roll his eyes; unlike the Ainsley mudblood, Abbott or that Turpin woman, this man complied too quickly to serve the Dark Lord. He clearly was a coward, and not an element to be trusted. Why did the Death Eaters soil their ranks with scum like Fawley?

Selwyn’s glare and sneer reminded him that the views he had upon the Fawley man were shared by many regarding Iorath himself. A meek-natured sexual deviant was not any better than a coward.

“So the mongrel and the uphill gardener have arrived, and with a blood-traitor at that! You’re late, boy,” he gnarled. As they got closer, Iorath noticed the stench of Firewhisky emanating from him.

“I’m sorry, Master Selwyn,” answered the novice Death Eater. The pale blond man did not seem to appreciate his apology, for he immediately spat at him.

“You’re worthless. We’ll soon have a talk to sort you out,” he hissed with malice, then looked upon Fawley “And what is this? What can you do besides keeping the Wizarding World pure by impregnating broads? Unlike others within our ranks, I don’t mind spilling magical blood if it is willing to taint itself or it doesn’t make itself useful,” a predatory grin appeared in his face.

Fawley gulped. “I’m only a Healer; I don’t know why you insisted on hunting me. I’ve nothing of interest to you other than my blood!”

Selwyn’s grin grew even wider.

“We actually may have use for a Healer among our ranks. Yes, very much so. I shall take you to the Dark Lord. If you manage to survive and suit his needs, you will be a valuable asset. Unlike some,” he looked at Iorath with malice. The gaunt young man lowered his gaze, feigning humility.

In truth, if there ever was a man he despised, that would be Andrian Selwyn. The Death Eater was a despicable man with a sick fondness for the Cruciatus Curse. Ever since he was thirteen, Iorath was forced to feel the Unforgivable Curse’s effects thanks to him. The Selwyn family had chosen to be the “sponsor” of the Kneath family in front of the members of the Sacred Twenty Eight, and Andrian Selwyn used that duty as an excuse to let loose his sadistic tendencies.

“I know what we might do with you, Fawley. Heh, to think that a member of a family of blood traitors, a family of Hufflepuffs of all things, could be of use... But yes,” his eyes were gleaming with cruel joy. Davis was doing his best to remain stoic, but the Auror was clearly perturbed by Selwyn’s behaviour. Indeed, Nott, for a senior Death Eater, was polite and did not show that much of a horrible attitude.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Get inside, you maggots! First I’ll deliver the imbecile to the Dark Lord and then I’ll go back to watch your darling wife,” he said harshly, his eyes glaring at Davis. Afterwards, Selwyn grabbed Fawley by the throat. The man’s face was quickly growing red with the lack of red, as both of them Apparated.

Davis was starting to enter the Kneath shack, but stopped when he saw that Iorath was not moving.

“I think Selwyn’s orders were clear enough, Kneath” the Auror told Iorath, his voice wary. The novice Death Eater gave him a bored look. He did not have to give Davis any excuse.

“You go in. I will be back shortly. There are things I have to do,” he replied. Davis frowned. “Don’t worry; if you attempt to escape, it is you who shall regret it more than I, so just go in. My mother is probably at home, so she will make sure both of us are punished by the charming fellow you’ve just seen.”

Davis scowled at him, but said nothing, as he knocked on the door. Indeed, the voice behind was Ysbail’s rough contralto.

“You back, boy?”

Iorath sighed. “Yes, it is I. I’m leaving you the Auror. I have things I must do,” he answered as she opened the door. The old woman was already incensed.

“You must be joking, boy. I’m not your servant and watching the Auror is _your_ duty,” she growled.

“ _Our_ duty, mother. I doubt my organization would let you get out with your life if I failed.”

Ysbail threw him a filthy look. Iorath shrugged and gestured Davis to enter. The old woman gave him an equally disdainful glare as she closed the door behind both of them. Iorath was sured he heard his mother mutter something on the lines of his brain having being addled by his love for cock, but did not care. The novice Death Eater then sighed in relief. He then started walking towards the West Parade. It was almost time.

Indeed, once he made it there, the pale-skinned, black-haired muggle was sitting on the bench he had found him yesterday. As he arrived, John King granted him a gentle smile.

“Thought you may be coming, Iorath. How are you?”

That caught Iorath by surprise. Beyond Eiriol and, for a time, Flint, no one really cared for how he was. His mother thought him a tool at best, and a failure at worst. Of Mairwen he could not expect any sincere concern. And his superior Death Eaters were not going to care for his mood as long as he did his duty. Selwyn, in particular, would relish in his misery, even more so if he was the cause.

“Uh, fine,” he managed to say.

“Are you, really? You look as if you haven’t slept at all!”

Iorath shrugged. He was used to severe lack of sleep by now. He knew that, after today, it would only get worse. That Turpin woman’s death was yet another dead caused by him, another murder. The thoughts that were plaguing him now would be nightmares that would haunt him even awake.

“Your eyes, Iorath. What happened?”

The Death Eater only knew what John meant when he touched his face. Apparently he started crying. John’s face showed concern. Iorath wiped the tears that he had foolishly allowed and smiled grimly.

“Nothing. Family issues,” he said a half-truth. After all, telling a muggle of all things that he was a committed murderer was probably one of the stupidest things he could do. John seemed understanding, however, and gave him a smaller, knowing smile.

“Happens often,” he said. Mentally, Iorath could not imagine just how often people were found in the situation him and his family found themselves.

The muggle then took out something from his bag. Iorath thought it looked similar to a Wizarding Chessboard. It was probably the muggle equivalent.

“Fancy a match? I warn you, I’m good,” said John with an annoying, cheeky grin. Iorath’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t see why not,” he muttered.

Indeed, half an hour passed and he was already been beaten. The man indeed had enough time in his hands to practice that game. Iorath remembered that Flint also beat him often at that accursed game, which he only played because he got to see his eyes bright with glee when he won. That never failed to make Iorath happy as well.

“You’re enjoying yourself, I see. You’re not that bad of a loser,” John mocked the blond man.

Iorath sneered at John, “Yet another great compliment on your part,” he drawled. Then he looked at the pieces that were out of the game. “It’s odd that they don’t destroy each other when they’re taken,” he said without thinking. John raised an eyebrow at him.

“Well, they’re inanimate objects and don’t have arms,” he replied drily.

Of course, muggle games. Iorath was an idiot for having mentioned that. “A joke, John. Surely even you can notice one when it flies in front of your face.”

John smirked at him. “Of course, an attempt to distract me from the game. Well, sorry, that won’t work.” With another move, the game was over in John’s favour. “Check mate.”

It still was surprising to Iorath that the muggle game ended without violence between the pieces. While it made sense (the Wizarding Chess pieces were animated by magic, after all) to see them whole after a game, with no consequence whatsoever. Iorath always thought that Wizarding Chess was a rather efficient metaphor for the Wizarding society as a whole. Pieces of higher status were more powerful, and tore other pieces apart if they were weaker or the player was not as intelligent as his opponent. It was a game of survival as much as wit. A game that held the values of Slytherin, cunning and self-preservation, to a high degree. To see that the muggle game had no dire consequences made Iorath think if such a world was more merciful to those who were not as fit for the society they were born into.

“You sure are thoughtful today,” he heard John speak. The man was smiling at him.

“Reflecting on the loss, I guess,” answered Iorath, drawling his voice. He offered a smirk and shook John’s hand.

John’s smile faded as he shook hands with Iorath. Still holding him, he put his other hand over his. Iorath felt the other man caress him slightly.

“Thanks for the game, mate. If you ever need to practise, I’m here,” he then released Iorath, a blush creeping in his pale face. Iorath was sure he was blushing as well. He took a minute to compose himself, then spoke.

“Thanks to you as well. I might need to practice further, so I hope to see you here.” John’s face brightened with a smile.

“I would be delighted,” he replied. Iorath smiled. He felt something akin to genuine joy. It was odd and pleasant to feel that.

As they left, Iorath could only think of that encounter for a while. He was thankful he could occupy his thoughts with John.

Then he saw Eiriol at a nearby corner.

“We need to talk, cousin,” she said. Her voice showed concern.

Of course, one must wake up from even the most pleasant of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the change of tone at the last two chapters, but I asure you, the plot needs this mushiness. I'll try to make it brief, but the mushy tone at some moment will come back. It is still NOT a romance fic. As I said before, please tell me what worked for you and what didn't. Hugs!!!


	6. Famished Hunters, Willing Preys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairwen gets tangled into an emotional committment that was supposed to be business. Ysbail is an unpleasant, abusive mother and aunt while Eiriol's not taking her crap and Iorath's a tool. Liam's a bit of a coward and the next target of the novice Death Eater Iorath is revealed.

### Famished Hunters, Willing Preys

Mairwen had done a tremendous effort in enduring dear Selwyn’s presence. Handsome though the man was, charm and geniality were most certainly not his fortes. She almost went for the flask of Weedosoros her sister Eiriol had concocted a few months ago and served him with the Firewhisky. Of course, her sense of survival told her better, and she decided to abandon any intention of silencing Selwyn’s scabrous mouth permanently.

That being said, the thought was a pleasant way of counteracting Selwyn referring to her as “wench” or “slag” when he asked something. Eiriol sometimes had a better judge of character than Mairwen: Selwyn was scum.

Luckily for her, he had left once her dear cousin and the Auror mongrel came back with some blood traitor. Now all she had to do was cleaning the house and enduring aunt Ysbail’s whining. She sighed in resignation.

Suddenly, the now-far-too-familiar sound of someone Apparating into the Kneath Shack filled Mairwen’s ears. She truly hoped that this was not Selwyn. Enduring his presence for hours was riveting enough.

The figure was certainly a Death Eater, his cloak and mask being enough identification for anyone. However, Mairwen could notice that the man was stooped and had a bit of difficulty settling after Apparating. She smiled.

“Good evening, Master Nott,” the brown-haired young woman said pleasantly. The robed man took out his mask to reveal his grey beard and clear eyes. He nodded in acknowledgement towards Mairwen.

“Good evening to you too, dear Mairwen,” he answered and looked for a seat.

“I’ll fetch you a drink, just wait here,” she said and immediately set out for the kitchen. However, Tristam Nott’s voice stopped her.

“I would thank that, actually,” he rasped. Mairwen quickly nodded with a polite smile. She went to the kitchen and fetched a bottle. She realised they had very little Firewhisky left. Still, perhaps Iorath could manage to talk to his contrabandist contacts in Rhyl to replenish the menu.

As she went back, Nott gestured at her politely.

“Please, sit down,” he asked. The young woman complied and sat in front of him, wearing a cordial smile. She then began to try and engage in conversation with Nott. She knew she had to further make herself worthy of trust of the man.

“Master Selwyn has already ensured that my cousin and the mongrel did their duty. The blood-traitor is on his way to the Dark Lord, from what I gathered from the Auror,” she wrinkled her nose in disgust. She truly disliked that man, and was grateful that Ysbail was dealing with him rather than having to do so herself.

Nott gave her an odd look, “I have said so before; I applaud your zeal, but we’ll need half-bloods and those of pure blood in our new order. To alienate them beforehand is counter-productive.”

Mairwen felt disappointed by Nott’s scolding, light as it was. She was doing her best to fall into the Death Eaters’ good graces and between a sociopath like Selwyn and Nott, who surprised her with his more rational way of approaching to the cause of the Dark Lord, she thought those were rather rough waters to sail through. She had to read Nott’s intentions and beliefs a bit better.

“I know, Master Nott, and I understand, but...” she trailed off. Nott smiled at her, showing his yellowed teeth.

“But, as I said before, your strength of faith is something commendable. Few have I met that follow the Dark Lord out of genuine belief rather than fear or an opportunity to harm others,” he said appraisingly. Mairwen smiled at him gratefully.

“You’re too kind, Master Nott.”

The man looked at her with something akin to gentleness. Mairwen was often surprised with him. While she knew of the rather unsavoury reputation of Death Eaters (much of it Ministry horseshit, she thought spitefully), Nott seemed to be a rather courteous man. He did not seem to enjoy flaunting his skill.

The man then raised his glass filled with Firewhisky and gestured Mairwen to do as well. “For the Dark Lord.”

Mairwen’s face acquired a solemn expression and imitated Nott’s gesture. “For the Dark Lord.”

Both then took a sip of the Firewhisky.

“Argh, it never fails to clear my throat,” he said casually. Mairwen chuckled.

“Regardless of what my sister says, Firewhisky is much more more effective than many of her medicines and concoctions when it comes to sore throats,” she agreed coyly.

Nott granted her another yellowed smile. “Your sister is a rather silent sort, isn’t she? And absent, I rarely see her around till late.”

Mairwen took another sip of her Firewhisky and then answered to the older man “Her job at the potions shop often takes her quite a lot of time. Mostly due to the fact that she insists to do everything by herself.” She was lying of course; Mairwen could not care the least for such a menial task that involved getting filthy. Eiriol would never see her way of things, however, and preferred to embrace mediocrity and engage in a fruitless business endeavour.

Nott nodded. “She seems to be a very hard-working woman. She probably had no choice after what happened to you both recently. My condolences,” he said respectfully.

Mairwen knew what the man meant. She tried her best to maintain her composure. “My parents were in the wrong; they shouldn’t have joined the protests with the rest of the Squibs,” she said shortly.

At that, Nott shook his head “No, they shouldn’t have, but neither were the rioters in the right when they attacked the protesters. Squibs must fight to regain their magic from the mudbloods who stole it, and we purebloods are to guide them, not butcher them,” he stated. Zeal flared in his eyes. Mairwen both awed by him and grateful; many used the claim of magic stealing in a shallow manner to neutralize Squibs, but few actually believed that. And him being so tactful regarding her parents’ deaths...

The man seemed to notice Mairwen’s admiring gaze, for he granted her a thin yet surprisingly kind smile. “You are not to blame for your parents’ mistakes, dear Mairwen. Nor are do we Death Eaters support the actions of loose extremists against the victims of magic stealing,” he told her. Mairwen merely nodded.

He seemed pensive for a while. The Death Eater drank a bit more of his Firewhisky and then looked again at Mairwen. “How is it you’re still alone, Mairwen? Surely Ysbail must have arranged you a decent pureblood marriage.” His direct question stung Mairwen’s senses. It was true: even though she was good looking, she could not find a decent match. She had higher standards than what was expected of her; she was good looking despite her humble background, after all.

“I... I’m afraid few purebloods have wished to marry either Eiriol or me, Master Nott,” she said, her voice trembling. This subject bothered her. The idea of dying a spinster was something she despised. And to be inquired or mocked about it was something unbearable.

Nott nodded in understanding, “The amount of Squibs in your line is not something you could control, and your blood matters more than economic status. Your cousin Iorath’s dalliances are also something beyond control,” he guessed.

Mairwen’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “So everyone knows about my _dear_ cousin’s... preferences? How wonderful,” she spat with venom. Nott raised an eyebrow at her.

“Iorath’s problems are not that he lies with other men,” he spoke, his voice calm, “If anything, the problem is that his preferences get in the way with bringing more pureblood children to the world, and he’s the only male in the Kneath family. What’s more, many of those who are so quick to judge Iorath have their own affairs with their own sex on the side.”

The younger woman looked at him in disbelief. “Surely not members of the Sacred Twenty Eight would engage in _that_!” she exclaimed.

Nott chuckled. “Actually, it’s far more common than you think. What’s important among the Sacred Twenty Eight is to keep up the appearances and produce heirs to the families. Well, to most of the Sacred Twenty Eight. Blood traitors like the Prewetts and Weasleys have other concerns,” he snarled; derision evident in his face. “Still, men who lie with other men are not all that uncommon among the pureblood families. They have simply learnt to live with the hypocrisy.”

Mairwen looked at him in astonishment, not knowing what to say. What was he implying so far?

“Oh, don’t worry. I myself have only been with women so far. And as you’ve noticed, I’m rather ancient. I have simply known human beings and their flaws for a long time. Age may not always come with wisdom, but it often does,” he said drily.

The young woman blushed. “I didn’t mean that, Master Nott! And you’re not ancient at all!” she blurted. Part of her outburst was done to please Nott, but another one was actually sincere; the man was not that old and he was agreeable enough to keep speaking with him. And she certainly hoped he did not enjoy the company of other men, it would be a waste.

“You don’t need to excuse yourself, Mairwen. But you should not be so hard on your cousin. He has already enough on his shoulders with Selwyn’s treatment. His family should not hamper him any further,” his voice was serious for a moment, but he then relaxed. “It’s not about me that we were speaking, however. I am merely surprised that such a comely woman has not yet found a man, status notwithstanding.”

If Mairwen had blushed before, now the effect was probably stronger, to the point of inelegance. She knew she probably looked like some virginal milkmaid who was being courted for the first time in her life. She tried to gain some degree of composure. She was, after all, trying to lure the man, not to be lured herself.

“You have a way with words, Master Nott, even if you exaggerate a bit. You yourself are a surprising bachelor,” she spoke, trying to maintain some grace.

Nott chuckled at that “Divorced, but I get what you mean, dear Mairwen. I thank you for your compliment as well,” he replied. Suddenly, something shone in his eyes as he looked past Mairwen. He quickly focused his gaze on her. “Tell me, would you care to go to the Chimaeras Choir concert next week? I would be pleased to share that moment with someone who can appreciate it. You fancy music, I hope?”

Mairwen managed to shoot one of her dimpled smiles. “I love it. It brightens my soul. I would love to go with you.”

The older man’s eyes seemed grateful, brighter than even before. He then lifted himself from the chair and went towards Mairwen and grabbed her hand. He lowered his head and kissed her palm.

“Then we are to meet at Knockturn Alley next week,” he drawled.

Mairwen’s dimpled smile deepened, as did her blush. She was letting a situation get out of her hands.

What was worse is that she did not care at all.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“You must be discreet, Iorath,” Eiriol chastised her cousin as they both returned home. The woman looked tired, with heavy bags under her eyes and a resigned look all around her. Dandruff was easy to see in her black hair.

“There’s nothing to be discreet about, Eiriol,” Iorath replied defensively. He did not have to explain Eiriol anything, least of all involve her in something that was indeed dangerous for anyone who knew of what was transpiring.

The woman did not seem convinced at all, “Really? So you’re just randomly disappearing after your Death Eater errands to go off with a man, a _muggle_ ,” a bit of vitriol could be nearly felt by how she she stressed that word, “Do you take me for a fool? I know you since we were children, Iorath.”

“Didn’t take you for another fellow wizarding supremacist. You want to join the Death Eaters with me or are you just trying to match up with Mairwen?” he returned the vitriol.

Eiriol scoffed, her pockmarked face showing visible disgust. “I care little for those animals. I don’t want to kill them all, I just think that we don’t have to mingle with them,” her blue eyes squinted at Iorath, “You, on the other hand, oscillate between both extremes.”

The gaunt young man glared at his cousin. He loved her, but she was apparently set on being a harpy today. “I do what must be done.”

“What must be done doesn’t include mating with those animals!” Eiriol hissed.

“We haven’t done so, yet,” he hissed back, his hazel eyes now flaring with genuine anger, “If you so wish, I can take a photo when we’re at it and send it to you so you can distribute it to our family and to Selwyn.”

“I’m worried about you doing something stupid, you gormless brat!” Eiriol’s normally whispery tone went bolder and higher, “You don’t know who’s watching you. Or what’s worse, you do and you don’t care. Do you think the Dark Lord would let his playthings go around without seeing what they’re up to? Do you think Selwyn would let one of his preferred tools wander around with another man, and a muggle at that?”

Iorath’s glare faltered slightly. Eiriol had a point, even if he hated to admit it. It was reckless to go and meet with another man knowing the reaction to such engagements already. To do so with a muggle meant a heinous violation of the Death Eater credo. However, he also knew that he would not stop seeing John. He needed something his in his life. Something his family would not meddle in.

“You don’t understand,” he blurted.

“Yes, I do. I was the one who tried to convince Ysbail that you weren’t fooling around with Flint. I understand what you’re trying to do now, but unlike before, you don’t get to do it!” Eiriol’s tone was harsh. Her blue eyes were icy.

“You’ve become a Death Eater, Iorath. You don’t get to live a life were you can fly off with your loved muggle to some island. You’ve a duty to the Dark Lord, whose agents shall watch over all of us, but specially you. And if you do anything to displease the Dark Lord, that bastard Selwyn or that crotchety old bat Nott, it’s not just your life that they’ll be taking,” she spat.

Iorath would not back down. “So you’re just concerned about your neck, Eiriol?”

An ugly snarl further marred Eiriol’s pockmarked face. “Yes, indeed. I’m concerned about my neck. I’m also concerned about Mairwen’s lovely neck. What’s more, Ysbail’s wrinkled, short neck concerns me as well. Why, perhaps even your long neck might even worry me as well. You don’t realise it, yet? You’ve put us all in danger!”

The Death Eater could now see that Eiriol was not enraged by him seeing another man. She still would forgive him for entering into the Dark Lord’s ranks under Ysbail and Selwyn’s pressure. The woman could hold a grudge.

“I don’t have a choice now, Eiriol. You better get over me being a Death Eater. If I do well, then the Dark Lord’s triumph will bring us power and glory. It will allow us to step up to our rightful place as wizards and witches both,” he answered, doing his best to sound convinced of his own words.

Eiriol would not be convinced by them, however. “Indeed, that is if the Dark Lord triumphs over the Ministry and the blood-traitors and mudbloods at the Order of the Phoenix. Has it ever occurred to you that he might not? If he fails, what do you think will happen with his followers? A life in Azkaban at best, the Kiss of the Dementors for filth like us!”

“You dare think the Dark Lord can fail, cousin? Are you that stupid? You haven’t met him, you don’t know his power!” he hissed, his tenor voice trembling with both anger and fear.

“Grindelwald was also a powerful wizard, probably even more powerful than the Dark Lord, and he’s rotting away in Nurmegard as we speak. There’s no such thing as an all-powerful wizard, Iorath! He might lose, and instead of us rising above the dirt we grovel in, we’ll have our souls taken by a Dementor! Have you not thought about it, just once?!”

Iorath’s face went pale. The idea of failure after having done all he had in the name of the Dark Lord was something he could not bear to contemplate. The consequences were indeed as dire as Eiriol painted them.

“I cannot afford failure, cousin,” he managed to mutter, his eyes staring at the floor.

Eiriol looked at him, her expression suddenly unreadable. “Of course you can’t. That’s why you must be careful,” she hissed. Iorath could not help but feel she was sometimes quite similar to a literal snake.

“You think I should end my encounters with the muggle. You assign far too much importance to them,” he said flatly.

“Iorath, you’re a fool with a death wish. I’ve told you already, you must be _discreet_ ,” she stressed the last word. Iorath could see now that her eyes had softened. She was not condemning him at all.

“Eiriol... I will”, he stammered. He felt gratefulness towards his cousin.

“I could never hate you for fancying anyone, Iorath. Even if it’s a filthy muggle,” her lips curled in disgust, but her eyes remained softer. “But you cannot simply meet him in the open in Rhyl. It’s a place too easy to watch, and only some local informants are loyal just to you. The rest have pledged their allegiance to Selwyn.

“And if anyone has any problem with you fancying another man, like my dear aunt, well... I’ve got curses to practice. I’m sure they’ll make a nice dummy.”

The man could see that his cousin was still very much his cousin, the person who had covered for him and stood by him when he was shunned for his tryst with Flint. The girl who had taught him to play Gobstones. The young woman who would help him with potions essays. And, right now, the only person with a degree of sense within his family, even more worthy since they were in the midst of a war.

“I’ll do my best not to be seen, Eiriol,” said Iorath finally. He caught himself smiling in gratefulness at his cousin. She returned the favour with her lips, not showing her teeth.

“That’s all I can hope for,” she whispered. They were now close to the Kneath Shack. “Let us enter. Your mother will probably be raving about something minor. Not that she needs any excuse for it,” Eiriol sneered. Iorath silently chuckled.

As they opened the door, they were surprised to see Nott with Mairwen. The young woman was blushing heavily, her dimpled smile showing her white teeth, as she looked at Nott. Only after a few seconds did they notice Iorath and Eiriol. Mairwen stopped smiling.

“Sister! Dear... cousin,” Mairwen said, looking at them with a mix of surprise and derision. Clearly the derision was for him. Nott nodded at them politely.

“Iorath, Eiriol, do come. It is your home now, after all,” he said jovially. “Mairwen and I had a lovely chat just yet. We’re going to see the Chimaera’s Choir at Knockturn Alley next week. Even in times of war we must do the best to keep up the spirits, don’t we?”

Iorath stared blankly for a moment, then blinked and nodded. “Of course, Master Nott. I’m happy for you finding time for leisure,” the blond man replied, his suspicious expression betraying his polite tone.

Eiriol nodded curtly at Nott as well. “It’s always good to see you, Master Nott,” she said nonchalantly. Iorath noted she was doing her best at acting politely, but Eiriol probably did not care much for Nott’s intrusion into what was signalled to them as their new home.

“The feeling is mutual, dear Eiriol. You seem tired, you should consider taking a break now and then,” he spoke.

The black-haired woman shook her head, “I’m afraid that work cannot wait, Master Nott. Me eating depends on it,” she replied. Somehow, Iorath could see that Eiriol was thinking how unused Nott would be to the idea working to survive. Eiriol was always a bit too resentful for her own good, he believed.

Luckily for all involved, Nott did not seem to mind, “Of course, of course. Well, times will change with the triumph of the Dark Lord, I assure you. Your purity of blood shall be rewarded, as well as your loyalty to our cause.”

Eiriol gave the man a polite yet thin smile. “You are most gracious, Master Nott.”

The older man then looked at Mairwen and smiled. “I am eager to see you next week, dear Mairwen.”

The younger woman gave one of those dimpled smiles that annoyed Iorath so much, yet somehow the smile reached her eyes this time. “I am as well, Master Nott,” she almost cooed.

Nott flashed another yellow smile and swiftly Apparated away.

Iorath would not bear a mask of politeness before Mairwen. He was tired of these little games she played. Whatever she was trying to do was dangerous for all of them.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, cousin?” he asked briskly.

The younger woman scoffed at Iorath, any semblance of happiness swiftly vanishing from her elegant features. “Why, it’s a man courting a woman, cousin. I know, a bizarre concept for you, but that’s what it was,” she sniffed.

“With Nott of all people? You’re aware that the man is not someone to be involved with?”

“And why would that be? Because he’s a Death Eater? I should be cleaning out the last male name in our loving family, if that’s the reason, Iorath,” she smirked , her eyes filled with contempt.

Iorath scowled, his gaunt face stony as he looked at his younger cousin. “You’re too young and you’re beautiful. Why being involved with someone that doubles your age, Mairwen?”

To that, the younger woman looked at him incredulous. “ _You’re_ questioning me on whom I am to be involved with? You of all people?!” she almost shrieked.

Eiriol intervened before Iorath could answer. The woman’s pockmarked face was unreadable. “No one should question the other’s choices regarding relationships. Mairwen is old enough to do as she pleases,” she gave Iorath an even stare, then she directed her blue eyes towards Mairwen’s own “And you should be careful with your own words, sister.”

Mairwen looked slightly rueful at her sister’s chastising. Iorath guessed it was because she was implicitly supporting her while scolded her mildly. The man’s hazel eyes looked at his older cousin in disbelief. Eiriol returned the gaze sternly, saying clearly ‘don’t let this go further.”

“Well, there’s someone who gets to question or approve your involvements, minger,” said a contralto voice from the stairs.

Ysbail remained very much the same; her body was stooped, marks of her former beauty hidden by her wrinkles, gray hair mixed with fading blonde. Iorath always thought she had grown older far too quickly. A life of toil mixed with her ever-so-sour demeanour and widowing probably had something to do with it. Iorath’s mother did not seem particularly moved with his scrutiny, however, as she snarled at him.

“The wench is finally doing something for the good of the family, boy. Don’t get in her way,” she growled. Ysbail then looked at Mairwen “And you, make sure you don’t screw it up. I know of your love for petty games, niece. I trust that you remove any notion of copulating with someone other than Nott.”

Mairwen’s face reddened in anger, but she decided to bite her tongue. Ysbail smirked, basking in her niece’s demureness.

“You’re learning your place slowly, wench. You were always fit for a life on your back, after all.”

Iorath disliked Mairwen, that much was true. But the verbal assault she was enduring was undeserved.

“Mother, stop that. Mairwen did nothing to earn your anger. You yourself said it, she’s doing something for our family,” he said, his hazel gaze hard on his mother. Mairwen seemed slightly surprised at his cousin’s gesture. Grateful, almost.

Ysbail, meanwhile, merely sneered at her son. “Indeed, that much is true. She’s finally found a use for her single talent: opening her legs. Unlike you and your dalliances, there’ll be at least a pureblood child out of that union, and our claim to be among the Sacred Twenty Eight will be stronger. Much more useful than you sharing a bed with another man,” she spat with venom.

“Shut up, old woman, or I swear you’ll regret ever letting that scabrous tongue of yours loose,” a whispery, soprano voice said. Iorath and Mairwen were surprised to see Eiriol so incensed suddenly. While they had seen the quiet woman enraged before, it usually came with a warning. Ysbail would not back down, however.

“You of all people are the least deserving to tell me to shut up, you minger. Your shop’s a failure that hasn’t brought us any wealth, and unlike your sister you’re unfit to be married off to someone important. Even your only use as a breeder is hampered by your appearance.”

“And even in that regard, biology was much kinder to me than to you so far, old failure,” Eiriol drawled, sneering back at Ysbail. Iorath’s mother face was livid with rage.

“How dare you, you-“

“Me what? The one that stands for her sister and cousin? It’s much more than what you did for your own brother, _dear aunt_.”

Ysbail looked at her with cold fury. Her eyes seemed about to pop out of her wrinkled face. “What I did was what I had to do to defend our family, Eiriol. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Yes, indeed. You had your brother, our father, killed along with his wife. You did an excellent job in defending our family. It explains why you think that insults towards your son and nieces are all that come from that infected tongue of yours.”

Ysbail took out her wand and Eiriol followed suit. The older woman’s reaction was anticipated by Iorath, who took hold of her wand-arm.

“Release me now, you uphill gardener, lest you want a beating as well,” she grunted.

Eiriol, meanwhile, was restrained by Mairwen. The younger woman was holding both of her arms as Eiriol struggled.

“Leave me, Mairwen. I’m not enduring that woman’s filthy mouth any longer,” she hissed at her sister.

“This isn’t the time for squabbling, sister!” exclaimed Mairwen, her eyes a bit wild in fear. Iorath, meanwhile, had to do less of an effort in restraining his mother.

“Continue with this, mother, and I will report you to Selwyn,” Iorath spoke quietly as he held her, but his hazel eyes were glinting at Ysbail. The woman did not budge.

“You think Selwyn isn’t angry with that minger? We cannot marry her off to a Pureblood family of lesser status, and she doesn’t produce any wealth with that pathetic shop of hers. What do you think Selwyn thinks of her?”

“He won’t think better of you if I desire so, mother,” drawled Iorath, his tenor voice was low and dangerous. Ysbail looked at him for a moment, her face snarling. She then put her wand away.

Eiriol gave her a last withering look and put her wand on the left of her hip. She then wiped her brown, dirty robes a bit and prepared to leave for her room. Her body was still tense.

“Do know that Mairwen is the only one who is fulfilling her marital duty, and that both of you must do so as well. Specially you, Iorath,” Ysbail said icily.

Iorath managed to keep his tongue in place. “Of course mother. You know full well that I am not one to get away from my duty to our family,” he said nonchalantly.

Ysbail sneered at him, her eyes filled with derision. “Indeed, that’s why you had that tryst with the Flint boy. Your duty isn’t shaming our family, Iorath.”

“No it isn’t. Continuing the Kneath family and aiding the Dark Lord are my duties, the last one I have fulfilled so far,” replied Iorath curtly.

“Because it was I who recommended you to Nott! It was I who begged Selwyn to put you to the test! I am your link to the Dark Lord’s agents, boy! And you’d better not forget it!” hissed Ysbail. Mairwen looked at her with mild annoyance while Eiriol glared at her with obvious disgust. Iorath, however, decided to keep his thoughts to himself. None of the three answered to Ysbail.

“Remember that if you are now among the Death Eaters, Iorath, it is because of me. You will not shame our family any further; you will help it expand. I’ve arranged a meeting between you and Lorraine Rowle. With any chance, I’ll be able to marry you off and link you to the Sacred Twenty Eight as well.”

Iorath’s eyes widened at this. “But... Lorraine is barely seventeen, mother!”

“And of age, you stupid boy. That’s what’s important. She’s not particularly talented as a witch, so the Rowles view you as an asset in comparison, as well as another connection to the Dark Lord,” she smirked before continuing, “Even you have your uses.

“All three of you will marry. If Mairwen manages to ensnare Nott, then all the better. But all of you must further our bonds with the Sacred Twenty Eight and bring purebloods to the world. If you’re not doing as much, you’re a failure to be corrected,” she finished.

Iorath nodded silently at his mother and went to sleep. Mairwen and Eiriol went their ways without wasting a word on the old woman. Iorath then thought about the idea of marrying a young girl just to be a political tool of a fallen family. He curled his lips in disgust as he went towards his bed.

He had to agree with Eiriol. Ysbail was a woman deserving of scorn.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“This is your new mission,” Selwyn said shortly to Liam and Kneath, showing a moving picture of a dark skinned man of high cheekbones and black hair. The three of them were in the Kneath Shack’s living room. Eiriol, Mairwen and Ysbail were sleeping. The novice Death Eater seemed to recognise the individual in the moving photo. His face bore a noticeable grimace.

“Afraid you’ll go after one of our own House at Hogwarts instead of the average blood-traitor, cocksucker?” asked Selwyn with a disgusting smile. So this one had been a Slytherin at Hogwarts. At the very least it was interesting to hunt down one of those snots, thought Liam sardonically. “Even Slytherin produces thrash on occasion. Look at you and your cousins, for example!”

If Iorath Kneath was to say anything to Selwyn, he was keeping it to himself, his gaunt face stony. For a Death Eater, Kneath was rather meek and subdued. It was probably fit for someone of lower hierarchy within the terrorist organisation, but Kneath was too demure even for that. Were he in any other situation, Liam would not bear that Selwyn bastard’s insults so gladly.

However, when the Death Eater directed his icy blue eyes at Liam, he quickly realised he was not in a better position at all. “You are to search for the location of that man at the Ministry, mongrel. The orders are the same as before for both of you: recruit or kill. Of course, given that this is a Shafiq we’re talking about, his execution is our last resort,” he spat at the floor and glared at Iorath Kneath before continuing, “If you have to kill him, the Dark Lord will probably take that as a failure. Do what you must to recruit him, Kneath.

“Of course, Master Selwyn,” the novice Death Eater said humbly. Liam was starting to feel annoyed at the lack of backbone Kneath suffered.

“You better recruit Shafiq, Kneath. Else we’ll probably have fun practising the Unforgivables with your family. I’m sure that slag Nott is so fond of will scream beautifully as we Cruciate her,” Selwyn licked his lips as Kneath tensed. The pale-blond Death Eater then looked at Liam “Your filthy muggle wife and the unborn mongrel will probably be much more entertaining, though.”

Liam paled at the suggestion. Selwyn was the one watching over Becca. He was not just making an idle threat. Bile filled his throat and his skin crawled at the thought of Becca enduring tortures under that bastard.

“Yes, that’s quite right. I suggest you do as the pillow-biter and I say, mongrel. If you want to keep mating with that animal and produce more mongrels, you better collaborate in finding Shafiq. Who knows, perhaps not only we’ll spare you, but we might overlook you being a half-blood. Nott sure likes to lessen our ranks with garbage like you,” he spat again at the floor as he finished.

“We will ensure Shaffiq is persuaded to join our ranks, Master Selwyn,” Kneath interjected. His voice remained polite, but Liam could notice that his left hand was trembling. Perhaps it was out of fear, but something told Liam that what the tawny-blond man was feeling was anger. Then again, given that Selwyn was as pleasant as the sound of someone scratching a blackboard, he could not blame him. If anything, Iorath was being far too patient with that bastard.

“You better do so, boy. You’ve pleased the Dark Lord so far. Make sure you do not disappoint him,” Selwyn grunted. He then Apparated away.

“You can’t possibly let him treat you like that,” Liam blurted out. Kneath’s hazel eyes looked at him coldly. Perhaps voicing his thoughts was not something he should do in this context, he thought dumbly to himself.

“Perhaps I should be more sincere with Selwyn and have both our heads removed off our shoulders. That sounds like a plan,” hissed Kneath.

“You’re supposedly a Death Eater like him. Shouldn’t you stand up to such verbal abuse? It’s clearly a test,” Liam replied. That seemed to only deepen Kneath’s scowl.

“It wasn’t a test, Davis. Selwyn has always been like this. The loose relation his family has with mine forces him to act as some sort of benefactor, but he resents the role and having to deal with scum like us. If you haven’t noticed, we’re not cut from the cloth as Selwyn or Nott,” the tawny-blond Death Eater spat with scorn.

Liam frowned at Kneath’s statement. “I thought that blood was what mattered for your kind,” he muttered.

Kneath laughed bitterly and looked at Davis with barely concealed contempt. “For the Death Eaters somewhat, but for the Sacred Twenty Eight and other pureblood circles? Blood and upbringing both matter to them. And they are ever so willing to remind that we lack the later.”

The Auror shook his head at that. Why would anyone be so willing to go along with the plans of a group that despised him? Selwyn and probably the rest of the Death Eaters belonging to prestigious families would deride the Kneaths for their poverty and the apparent prominence of Squibs in their line. Why helping a group that was willing to ostracize you, at the very best?

“Your cousin was right, you shouldn’t have joined the Death Eaters in the first place,” Liam stated bluntly. That actually seemed to enervate Kneath even more.

“I trust you don’t speak with Eiriol more than what is needed, Davis. What my cousin and I speak about is our business alone,” he hissed.

“But you can see how they despise you, Kneath. This Selwyn thinks as lowly of you as he thinks of me! Why do you endure that?!”

Kneath’s scowl further deepened. The tawny-blond threw Liam another withering glare. “It is my duty to help the Dark Lord clean this world of scum. For my family as well as for the good of our society as a whole,” he spat.

Liam looked at him with a mix of pity and disgust. “Do you realise that you’re viewed by your Death Eater friends only as slightly better than those you hate?”

To that, Kneath could not answer immediately. The man frowned and stood silent for a moment, and then he looked at Liam.

“I am set in this path, and you should be too, Davis,” he said simply. Then, a hint of anger took over his gaunt facial features, his lip curling in disgust. “Do not speak to Eiriol about this ever again, Davis. That’s not your business in the slightest. Right now, your duty is discovering Shafiq’s location.”

The Auror’s face was equally stony now, but he nodded. Liam now knew something about Iorath: his convictions were not entirely in place. That could give the Auror an edge afterwards if the opportunity showed itself.

“Who is this Shafiq, anyway? I only read of that surname on occasion in The Daily Prophet,” Liam interrogated Kneath. The tawny-blond man wrinkled his nose, but his eyes seemed slightly more relaxed. Probably because of the change of subject, Liam guessed.

“Solomon Shafiq is a member of one of the Sacred Twenty Eight families, hence why you’re familiar with the name. More specifically, this one is a former Slytherin student and curse-breaker who went down the blood-traitor line in the worst way,” Kneath answered Liam.

“Which way would that be?”

“He is in a relationship with a muggle. Oh, don’t look at me with that venom, Davis,” Kneath said with exasperation as Liam’s scowl hardened at his words, “In your case it’s not something _that_ unexpected. In the case of a pureblood, a member of the Sacred Twenty Eight, it is a grievous sin. Solomon Shaffiq was disowned shortly afterwards and the family is going through a crisis. He was, after all, the only male heir. The next child with that surname will be a half-blood. Rather like you,” he smirked.

“I see... So it isn’t something that apart from the usual blood purifying agenda of yours. Just an average day in the life of a Death Eater,” Liam replied drily. Iorath shook his head.

“Unlike the other families we’ve had to deal with, this one is not a family of proven blood-traitors. Quite the opposite; the Shafiqs have been up until this Solomon’s folly staunch believers of blood purity. Solomon Shafiq is a stain far too large for this family to endure. There’s probably a degree of interest in the Death Eaters in bringing him back in line and getting rid of his muggle wife and unborn child,” mused Iorath out loud.

Liam’s face went sheet-white at the suggestion. The idea of killing a pregnant woman was something distasteful yet far too familiar with his predicament. Iorath seemed to notice that and looked at him with a degree of understanding.

“Think that if we are to do something, we are doing it so that your own family may survive,” he assured Liam. Were it any other situation, the reminder that Becca and Tracey’s lives were at stake would have eased him into committing the illicit deeds demanded by the Death Eaters. However, this time he was being asked into helping Iorath kill a family just for being tied to a pureblood.

“Surely there’s no actual need of killing Shafiq’s wife. If he complies to come to us without bloodshed, then there’s no need to murder the woman,” he spoke, his voice trembling.

Iorath pursed his lips in doubt. “It will probably depend on whether the woman has taken the surname for herself. That will certainly reveal to all of the Wizarding society that the Shafiq line no longer pure, more so if there’s a child with that surname. If not, then it can be another dirty little secret of pureblood families,” he replied.

The Auror was thankful that at the very least, Kneath was considering the options. While the Death Eater was probably fine with being an unrepentant murderer (he certainly was not above torture if his buttons were pushed, the Auror remembered with disgust), Liam would never step as low as to kill a woman in cold blood due to her being a muggle.

Still, the feeling that he might have to choose between that innocent woman’s life and Becca was something he did not relish.

Kneath noticed the hesitation and worry in Liam’s face. His gaunt face was stern.

“We’ll see if there’s a way around. I can’t promise anything,” he said curtly.

Liam merely nodded.

He had to ensure that Becca survived. Other than that, he could not trust any of his new acquaintances or care for people he did not know.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Solomon opened the door of the flat and entered the house he now shared with Haley. The woman he loved was preparing a tuna salad, one of her own families. Solomon grinned inwardly. While Haley was not the best of cooks, she knew her way around dishes she enjoyed.

“Night, my love,” he approached Haley and kissed her lips, pink and paler than the rest of her beautiful face. She smiled back at him.

“How was work today, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice vibrant with joy.

“Tiring, but at the very least we’ll make it through the month, I think. The restaurant was rather busy today,” he lied. Of course he did not work at a restaurant. But ever since he met Haley, he had to design a front for his real job, curse-breaking at Gringotts. He was not ready to tell her the truth. And why would he? She did not seem to care at all. All that mattered was that they loved each other.

“Good! Then if the restaurant keeps being as busy as it is, we’ll be able to rent something bigger when the baby comes,” she said brightly. Solomon nodded, baring his white teeth into a big smile.

“Yeah. You’ve no idea how eager I am for it,” he replied. He was about to kiss her again when he heard a noise near the window. He went for it swiftly, and saw an owl flying away. He frowned.

“Something wrong, dear?” Haley asked as she continued preparing the dish. Solomon knew he could not tell Haley of whatever was going on.

“Nothing, just a bird that had a bad wing and collapsed on the window. It’s flying away right now,” he replied.

“Oh, okay! Well, do come quickly. The dinner’s almost ready!” Haley said. Solomon mouthed a “yes” loud enough for her to hear as he opened the envelope that the owl had left. His eyes bulged as he read the letter’s contents.

_You are being targeted by You-Know-Who and his lackeys. We’ll do what’s in our power to protect you and your family, but you must remain hidden for a while. We’ll meet you at your restaurant at midnight tomorrow._

_O.P_

Solomon felt his stomach turn. Finally the past he had tried to evade was catching up with him. He knew that his family had marked him as a target for the Death Eaters. What was worse, Haley was probably marked as well.

Still, there was the possibility that this was just a scam. Whoever was this ‘O.P’, there was the possibility that this was just a trap or a way to get a few Galleons out of the Shafiq family. Not that they would give any for him, but still.

However, the rational side of Solomon’s mind reminded him of the kidnappings and murders committed by the Dark Lord’s servants. If there was someone who could be targeted, it was him. Solomon felt his skin crawl.

“Something the matter, dear?” he heard Haley’s voice from the kitchen, which brought him back to reality.

Whether this was a scam or a genuine warning, he was to find out tomorrow night. He looked at the letter for a small while and then focused his eyes in the unmoving picture of him and Haley. Both were smiling happily at a park in London. That was a photo of their first months dating, which coincided with him being disowned by his parents for being in a committed relationship with a muggle.

He knew he would only give up what he had built so far if it meant safety for Haley and her child. He had given up many things for the love he felt for Haley, among them foolish pureblood beliefs and a fanatical family. He would not surrender Haley to anyone.

“Nothing, dear. Just cleaning the feathers off the window, is all,” he replied, still staring at the photo of both of them smiling brightly at a park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This took longer than what was expected, so sorry to anyone that's reading this. Work in RL has been rather taxing. Comments encouraged and welcome. Concrit MORE than welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> While I may communicate in English, it is not my first language. Thus, should anyone reading this spot mistakes or awkward phrases, please let me know, as well as any other kind of feedback. Beta readers and reviews are more than welcome.
> 
> Also, I suck at uploading files. I really suck.


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